


The Lion, the Wench, and the Wardrobe Trailer

by GilShalos1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse (Cersei chapters), All Characters Except Main Pairing Are Minor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I mean I assume you're familiar with the original material so none of this should be a surprise, Idiots in Love, Major Character Injury, Misunderstandings, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Swearing, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2020-09-14 19:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 173
Words: 366,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20281648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilShalos1/pseuds/GilShalos1
Summary: Jaime Lannister’s entire acting career has been built on playing reckless cads and heartless villains – ever since a scandalous death on his first film, Kingslayer, was quickly hushed up at his father’s behest. Nearly fifteen years later, acclaimed director Olenna Tyrell has announced her retirement: after one last film, Oathkeeper, inspired by the mythic story of the Long Night. She wants Jaime to do what he does so well, play into his on-screen persona and off-screen reputation, and be a villain for the ages in her final film. But to make sure his infamous ways don’t interfere with production, she requires his personal assistant to keep him on the straight, narrow and sober. Brienne Tarth, in her first job on a film set, finds herself tasked with keeping the impossible Jaime Lannister under control …





	1. Jaime I

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Modern AU so I welcome all feedback, concrit included. Help me make this story better! 
> 
> Given than Westeros is an upside down Ireland/version of medieval England in ASOAIF, I am using Celsius for temperatures. Rough conversion for my American readers: multiply by 2 (actually 9/5 but who wants to do that) and add 32 to get the temperature in Fahrenheit.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Moat Cailin airport. It is a balmy eight degrees tonight, so make sure you rug up before you leave the terminal. Your luggage will be on carousel one – you can’t miss it, it’s the first and also the last baggage carousel. Please refrain from using your mobile phone or any other electronic devices until you are well inside the terminal, and once again, thank you for flying Reed Air. If you have any questions – ”

Jaime Lannister tuned her out and turned his mobile phone on while the plane was still taxiing to the gate. It took an abnormally long time for _searching for network _to be replaced by one thin bar of reception. _Fuck me, this really is the arse-end of the country. _A moment later, a notification popped up. _Three new messages. _One from Cersei, which he deleted without listening to it. One from Tyrion, telling him to remember it was just for a few months and that the redheads of the northern provinces were said to be uncommonly passionate.

One from Davos Seaworth, production manager for _Oathkeeper_, the film that Jaime was here to shoot. _Sorry, lad, but reception can be a bit tricky up here. Your text about the flight change didn’t come through until just now. Brian is on the way, but you might have a bit of a wait. Sorry again._

Jaime’s lips thinned as he dropped the phone back into his pocket. Twiddling his thumbs in a – he glanced out the window – _one building_ airport for who-knew-how-long was hardly an auspicious start. _I should have realised something was up when first-class on the only airline that flies in here turned out to be an extra packet of cashews and a second G and T. _

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the headrest as the plane came to a halt. No need to take advantage of his seat at the front of the plane if he was only going to be wearing out his arse on some plastic bench for hours. As the other passengers shuffled past him – all thirty of them – Jaime occupied himself running through the increasingly thin reasons why signing up to do _Oathkeeper_ had seemed like a good idea. _You’re perfect for it_, old Walder Frey had sniggered, which meant _it’s another of the identical roles that’s all you’ll ever be offered_. He’d pushed the contract across the desk. _A chance to work with the famous Queen of Thorns_, which meant _at last one director you haven’t burned your bridges with._

Jaime would have liked to explain that it wasn’t _him_ who’d burned those bridges, it was his father and Tywin Lannister’s unyielding fury that his son would work with any director who wasn’t him, let alone that Jaime would work with _every_ director who wasn’t him. Tywin had used his industry clout and the underhanded methods of people like Roose Bolton to make sure scandal, accidents, and commercial and critical failure dogged the career of any director who dared to cast his wayward son. The fact that Jaime had a career at all was half-miracle, half sheer unrelenting hard work. Even then, he could easily have ended up patching the gaps between playing _Soldier#2 _or _Officer#7_ with dinner theatre in Stone Hedge or Pinkmaiden and character costume at the Water Gardens.

Fortunately, the tide of historical dramas that Tywin Lannister had tried to ride with _Kingslayer_ had shown no sign of ebbing in the past decade-and-a-half. As one of the few actors in Westeros expert enough with a sword to do all his own stunts, without too much costly rehearsal, Jaime had rarely found himself out of work for long. _Even if the work isn’t exactly what I’d prefer._

Jaime would have liked to take the contract and cram it down Walder Frey’s throat until the old bastard’s eyes bulged and Jaime never again had to hear about such-and-such a role was _right in his wheelhouse. _Another vicious bastard, that meant. Another character who’d kill without conscience and murder without mercy.

Another _Kingslayer_.

He hadn’t done it, of course. He’d signed the contract and gone home to pack for several months on location in the frozen fucking north. _I need to get a new agent. _It wasn’t a new thought, but the work involved … he’d have to meet new people, a lot of them, he’d have to talk about his career and what he wished it would be, he’d have to face –

“Excuse me?” a voice said beside him. Jaime opened his eyes to see a young woman – no, a girl, a teenager – looking down at him. “Sorry, but are you … him?” Mouth open to agree that yes, he was indeed _him_, Jaime froze at her next words. “The Kingslayer? You look like him.”

_Fuck Petyr Baelish and every single one of his bloody tabloid publications._ The girl flinched a little and Jaime composed his face. “Yes,” he said pleasantly. “That’s me. Although I’ve played one or two other roles since then.”

“Oh, I know!” she squealed. “_Oathbreaker_, and _Man Without Honour_, and –”

“Do you want an autograph, or a selfie?” Jaime interrupted, and then softened it with his best false and charming smile. “Only we shouldn’t hold them up, the flight attendants will be keen to take a break.”

It was a selfie, so Jaime smiled for the camera, and then took the phone from her and took another of the both of them, and left her blushing and stammering and probably Ravengramming him as he strode down the umbilical and into the terminal.

_Kingslayer._

_Oathbreaker._

_Man Without Honour_.

His first role, his first fucking role, and him all of seventeen years old. _Kingslayer _had never even released after the scandal his father had so quickly and thoroughly hushed up, and it had defined him ever since. Typecast, because everyone believed him cast-to-type. The truth didn’t matter. The truth had _never _mattered, that was what it came down to. Even Ned Stark hadn’t even asked, when he found Jaime standing over the body with the bloody prop-knife in his hand. _As if honourable Ned Stark would have done differently. _

_Not that he cared to ask._

His luggage was among the last left on the carousel and Jaime snagged one suitcase and then the next, tossing them beside a plastic fern. He slumped onto the nearest bench and put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. If his text to Seaworth when Reed Air had cancelled his original flight and put him on an early one had been delayed, he might have to wait the whole three hours until his original arrival time of 10pm. Jaime was hazy on the geography of the north, but they were shooting in Winterfell, or near it, and that was at least as far from Moat Cailin as Harrenhal was from the Twins. _And the roads are probably shit, too. _Jaime might be hazy on the geography of the north, but he had a fairly firm grasp on the fact that everything north of the Neck was a shitter version of its southern counterpart.

_Fine_. He’d sit, and wait, and eventually ‘Brian’ would turn up. Jaime had no illusions about ‘Brian’s’ role: an unofficial nanny, making sure Jaime kept his nose clean and his face off the front-pages of Baelish’s papers. Entirely unnecessary, but then, who would hire the man who’d stabbed the star of his first movie without some sort of insurance? Jaime pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and sighed, hoping at least Brian would be decent company.

Afterwards, he wasn’t entirely sure if he’d fallen asleep, or only into a doze, or simply into a daydream, but the next thing he was aware of was a hand on his arm and a voice he didn’t know saying his name. In that instant of waking he sensed a huge form stooping over him and jerked away. In the same instant, the person stepped back, and Jaime opened his eyes and looked up.

And up. And up.

“Gods be good, you’re a _woman_!”

It was not the most polite nor the most suave introduction, but it was all Jaime could manage as he stared at her. She was _enormous_, taller than he was when he got hastily to his feet, all shoulders and massive arms and teeth. She was also quite the ugliest woman he’d ever seen in his life, with a bird’s nest of straw-coloured hair, a profusion of freckles and a nose that had been broken more than once.

She glared it him as if he’d said something offensive rather than simply state an obvious fact, and ignored his outthrust hand. “Mr Lannister,” she said, but her eyes and tone said _Kingslayer_. _Oathbreaker. Man Without Honour_. 

“Yes.” Jaime withdrew his hand, since she showed no inclination to lower herself to shake it. “I just – how did you come to be called Brian?”

“Brienne,” the giantess snapped. “My name is _Brienne_. Brienne Tarth.”

“Mine’s Jaime.”

“Mr Lannister.” She looked him up and down as if not liking what she saw. It rankled. Jaime knew very well that he was not just good-looking but intensely attractive – his career was built on that fact, for one thing. He worked out in whatever gym was available for an hour a day, cardio and weights, he spent more on creams and lotions for his face than even his sweet cousin, and his hair had been trimmed yesterday to fall just to his shoulders. And now this great ugly cow of a woman looked at him with disdain and judgement? Jaime felt something tighten in his gut. _Aerys. It always comes back to Aerys. _

“Do you have a car, at least?” he asked.

Brienne’s lip curled. “Of course I have a car.”

Jaime picked up his bags. “Then lead on, MacDuff.”

She turned on her head. “It’s _lay_ on,” she tossed over her shoulder as she strode towards the exit, not offering to help him with his luggage. “_Lay_ on, MacDuff.”

Jaime trailed after her. “How far away is the hotel?”

Brienne paused, and turned to face him. “I was told you were staying on location, like the rest of the talent.”

_A trailer. Fuck me. Tyrion always says I need to read things before signing them. _“Surely there must be a hotel that isn’t booked out in this … bustling metropolis.”

“There might be. My instructions are to drive you to Winterfell Castle and get you settled in.”

“You can _settle me in_ to a hotel.” 

Her jaw set mulishly. “Those aren’t my instructions.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be my assistant?”

“I don’t work for you. I work for Davos Seaworth, and my job is to drive you to –”

“Winterfell Castle, yes, I heard you the first time, woman.”

“Brienne. My name is Brienne, Mr Lannister.”

“And mine’s Jaime.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone holding up a phone. _Fuck._ If he kept arguing, it would be all over the internet by tomorrow. Jaime had no doubt that his father had tasked someone with monitoring social media to make sure anything embarrassing to Jaime would end up going viral. “Alright. I’ll take it up with Seaworth. How far to Winterfell Castle?”

“Around three hours, depending on the weather.” Brienne hesitated, and then held out her hand. “I can carry your bags.”

“I’m fine,” Jaime snapped.

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Do you have anything warmer to wear?”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “How far away did you park?”

“As close as I could, given the ice.”

His other eyebrow went up. “Ice? I’m beginning to suspect good old Walder kept a few details from me when I signed the contract.”

Brienne scowled at him. “Haven’t you been to the north before?”

“Of course, I’ve filmed in the Vale three or four times.”

She snorted. “The Vale isn’t north.”

“It’s hardly south.” Jaime followed Brienne to the door. “And it was –” The sliding doors opened on an icy gasp and swirl of snow and he gasped. “Fuck!”

“Watch your footing,” Brienne said. “You won’t see the ice before you step on it.”

She led the way across the parking lot, picking her way carefully. Jaime hurried after her, shivering convulsively after only a few yards. “Fuck. It’s as cold as the Crone’s cunt.”

“Do you mind?” Brienne snapped over her shoulder.

It was hard to control his chattering teeth enough to speak. “It being colder than the Stranger’s kiss? Bloody right, I mind.”

“Do you mind not using that language?”

“What, are you going to wash my mouth out with soap? Should I start calling you ‘Nanny’, woman?”

“Brienne,” she snarled, yanking her keys out of her pocket and clicking the remote. The lights on a nearby Range Rover with heavily chained tyres flashed. “My name is Brienne.”

“_Brienne._ Open the fucking boot, _Brienne_.” She did, and Jaime heaved his suitcases in and scrambled around to the passenger door, dignity forgotten in the urgent need to get at least slightly warmer. There was a lingering warmth in the car, but the moment Brienne heaved herself into the driver’s seat and shoved the keys into the ignition, starting the air-conditioning, Jaime held his hands over the nearest vent. “Promise me you won’t tell Tyrion about this, or he’ll never stop gloating.”

Brienne began to take off her coat, no easy task for a woman of her size while cramped between the seatback and the steering wheel.

“I don’t know Tyrion, so I should be able to manage that.”

Brienne’s arm was caught in the sleeve, and Jaime took hold of the fabric and tugged it free. His reward was a suspicious glare from blue eyes. _Really, quite pretty eyes_. Jaime sighed. “My brother. You’ll meet him,” he said as Brienne put the car in gear, pulled out of the parking space and headed for the exit. “He always finds some excuse to visit when I’m filming. Why are you driving so slowly?”

“Because I don’t want to die,” Brienne snapped, gaze fixed on the road ahead. “Did you hear me when I talked about ice?”

“I could have sworn I saw chains on your tyres.”

“They help, they’re not a magic bullet.”

Jaime sighed again. “Fine. Tell me about the movie, then. I mean, I know I’m playing the villain, but what else happens?”

“I actually need to concentrate,” Brienne snapped. “So we both get there in one piece. So if you wouldn’t mind keeping quiet …”

“If you can’t talk and drive at the same time –”

The wheels slid on a slick of black ice and the Jaime fell silent, grabbing the panic handle. Brienne steered into the skid, corrected, and stayed on the road. Brienne shot a glance at him. “You were saying?”

“I’ll just shut up over here and pray quietly for deliverance,” Jaime said.

“Thank the Seven,” Brienne snapped.


	2. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime arrives on location at Winterfell Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left feedback! I really appreciate any and all encouragement, criticism and comments.
> 
> A note on tags: I'll be adding more character tags as those characters appear. I'll also be adjusting the other tags as the shape of the story becomes clearer in my head, so keep an eye on them if you have particular preferences and might want to nope on out.

Jaime would never have believed that he could fall asleep in a car being driven over the icy, treacherous and no-doubt poorly maintained northern roads, but he saw the sign for the Torrhen’s Square and then there was a warm comforting darkness and then Brienne was shaking him awake. 

He blinked at her, his mouth furry. “Are we –” He coughed, cleared his throat. “Are we at Winterfell?”

“Nearly,” Brienne said. “I thought – sometimes there are paparazzi at the front gate and I thought you might not want them to get a shot of you passed out.”

_Passed out_. Because he was Jaime Lannister, _Kingslayer_, capable of every excess and most depravities. _And little else._ “I fell _asleep_,” Jaime snarled. The glowing clock on the dash showed it was nearly one in the morning, for the Seven’s sake!

Brienne studied him, and something in her brilliant blue eyes softened. “I know. But that’s not what the headline would say.”

Jaime pushed himself upright and scrubbed his hands over his face, unaccountably more annoyed by her kindness than by her judgement. “And that’s your job, right, to think about what the headlines would say.”

Brienne withdrew her hand and turned to face forward again. “If you prefer to be tabloid-fodder, I won’t stop you.”

He laughed, and it was an ugly sound, even to him. “Oh, really? And how long do you think you’ll keep your job if the Queen of Thorns sees my face on the front page of _Gulltown Gossip_?”

“I work for Davos, not Ms Tyrell.” She put the car back in gear, flicked on the blinker, and looked over her shoulder to check the road. Unnecessarily, in Jaime’s opinion, since there was no sign anyone else was mad enough to be on this goat-track at this time of night in this weather.

“And Davos Seaworth told you to baby-sit me. Tell me, do the rest of the actors have their own nanny?”

“I’m your assistant, not your nanny or your baby-sitter.” She pulled back onto the road, and continued on at an agonisingly slow pace. “And I don’t know.”

Jaime rubbed his eyes again, and raked his fingers through his hair. “What were you doing before they hired you to keep an eye on me?”

Her lips thinned. “I don’t see how that’s your business, Mr Lannister.”

“Seven Hells, woman, I’m just making conversation!”

“Brienne,” she snapped. “My name is Brienne.”

“Are you telling me you _aren’t_ a woman?”

An ugly flush washed up her cheeks. “Are you telling me you aren’t Mr Lannister? The –”

_Kingslayer_. She cut herself short, but Jaime heard it anyway, in the silence. He turned away and stared out the window into the dark. _Aerys_. It always came back to Aerys.

Brienne turned off the road and onto an even more narrow one, slowing further. After a moment, she cleared her throat. “Have you been to Winterfell Castle before?” 

An olive branch, that was, but Jaime was still smarting. _Fuck it, and fuck her_. “Oh, the Stark ancestral home? Yes, I’ve been invited for every Harvest Day ever since poor dead Ned found me standing over Aerys Targaryen with his blood still wet on my hands.”

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. “You should show some respect.”

“For who? Ned Stark?" Jaime snorted. “After he showed so much to me? Hardly. But you can assume I’ve never been to Winterfell Castle and I’ll never come back once my scenes are shot and wrapped and in the can.”

Brienne swallowed convulsively, the movement of her throat clear even in the dim light inside the car. “Given how he died, Mr Lannister. I would think –”

“That was all Joffrey, and none of me,” Jaime shot back. “He’s a vicious little shit and for all we’re related I’ve had little and less to do with his upbringing.”

“According to Mr Stark you had quite a lot to do with him,” Brienne snapped.

_Fucking Baelish and his ‘Littlefinger’s List’. _Always just sufficiently anonymised to avoid a libel suit and just sufficiently detailed for everyone and their dog to know exactly who was being described, the scurrilous column came out every week and ‘a certain well-known handsome bad boy on and off the screen and his beautiful kissing cousin’ had featured last year. The insinuation about Jaime’s relationship with Cersei – and the parentage of her three children – had been so delicately hinted at that even Tyrion had been unable to find a way to sue. _Besides, _Tyrion had said, carefully not looking at Jaime, _what do you say when his lawyers challenge you to produce DNA results? _

And the story had come from Ned Stark, Cersei’s husband’s best friend, Jaime was sure. Cersei had called him, frantic, a week before. _He knows, Jaime, he knows, I don’t know how but he knows, he’s going to tell Robert, gods, everyone will know, Robert will kill me, you know what he’s like, his temper. Jaime, Jaime, you have to do something, you have to save me._

_Leave him_, Jaime had said. _I can keep you safe. Leave him, and be with me, and to the Seven Hells with all of them_. _They can say what they like, why should we care?_

Not the answer she’d wanted. Two days later Robert Baratheon had crashed his car with a blood alcohol level of .15 and died, and that same night his son Joffrey had walked up to Ned Stark at a black-tie gala and shot him in the face.

Jaime hadn’t dared to ask Cersei how that convenient accident and her son’s convenient mental breakdown had come about. Because if he asked, and she told him … he’d have to decide what to do about it, and he was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to live with any of the options.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d listen to gossip,” he said now. 

“Catelyn Stark got me this job.”

Jaime let his head fall back against the headrest. “Ah. So that explains why you hate me on sight. Look. Joff asked me to arrange an invite that night because, he said, he had a crush on Sansa Stark. I didn’t know he was planning to murder her father in front of her and her sister, I didn’t know he had a gun, and if I had, I would have bloody stopped him. I _play_ murderers, woman, that doesn’t mean I _am_ one.”

“History begs to differ,” she said fiercely. “And my name is Brienne.”

“History? What history, exactly?” _She thinks she knows all there is to know. Everyone thinks they know everything there is to know. _“You mean _you_ beg to differ.”

“I know what you did.”

“_Everybody_ knows what I did,” Jaime shot back. “It’s followed me ever since.”

“As it should.”

He turned to look at her, the break to her nose clearer in profile. “Oh, yes, I’m sure that’s what Lady Catelyn told you.”

“Do you deny it?” She was worked up enough to glance away from the road, if only for an instant. “Do you deny you killed Aerys Targaryen?”

“As energetically as you deny you’re a woman.”

Brienne scowled at the windscreen. “I _am_ a woman.”

“But you’re offended when I mention it. I killed Aerys Targaryen, but I hardly love to be reminded. So is there a difference between us?”

The scowl grew fiercer. “All the difference in the world.”

He sighed. “Fine. I don’t care what you think of me, so long as you do your job.”

“Of course I’m going to do my job!” she snapped.

“Then we’ll get on famously,” Jaime snarled back, and went back to staring at the black night outside the window.

Before long Brienne slowed the car, and then stopped as the road reached a tall chain-link fence and a gate. Through it, Jaime could see a cluster of trailers illuminated by the yellow glare of sodium lights, drifts of snow between them, and beyond, the high stone wall of what he guessed was Winterfell Castle. The trailers were substantial, at least, which was a relief.

Yanking on the handbrake, Brienne twisted around and grabbed her coat from the back seat. “Wait here,” she said, struggling into the garment.

Jaime could have taken the shoulders of the coat and helped her into it, but he was the Kingslayer, so fuck it, he folded his arms and waited. Brienne huffed and panted and finally got her giant self encased in her giant padded coat. She climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind her hard enough to jar Jaime’s teeth. 

He watched her stride over to the gate. As she kept her balance on the snow Brienne was oddly graceful, far more than she’d been stomping through the Moat Cailin airport. Perhaps she was some sort of cold-weather athlete – skier? Snowboarder? She spoke to the man – _woman? Martian? Who could tell inside the swathing of winter-wear –_ at the gate, and the individual nodded, and began to drag the gate open.

Jaime turned his head away and looked out the window as Brienne climbed back into the car. 

“You’re in number fifteen. One through five are offices. Hair and makeup are six and seven.” She drove forward again, even more slowly. “Do you have a warm coat in your luggage?”

“This _is_ my warm coat,” Jaime said.

She snorted. “I’ll have something suitable for you in the morning. Your first call is at seven, with stunt, so you won’t need makeup.”

“I will need breakfast though. Where’s catering?”

“End of the row. Breakfast runs from four till nine, but there’s toast, cereals, milk, tea and coffee in your trailer.” The car came to a stop, and Brienne yanked the handbrake on and switched off the ignition. Almost the instant the air-conditioning shut off, the temperature inside the car began to drop. “The door’s unlocked. I’ll get your luggage.”

Jaime steeled himself, opened the car door and bolted for his trailer. It was even colder than it had been at Moat Cailin, but thankfully Seaworth had organised for someone to turn the heater on in the trailer long since, and a wave of blessed warmth met him as soon as he opened the door. He ducked inside, leaving the door open for Brienne to follow, and glanced around the trailer. _Not bad_. He had to hand it to the Queen of Thorns, she didn’t skimp. Oleanna Tyrell and Tywin Lannister might both have old family names and old family money behind them, but the Queen of Thorns clearly didn’t share Tywin’s belief that money was for saving, not spending. The trailer was large enough to hold a separate bedroom, a kitchenette, a luxurious couch and a table that could double as a desk.

Brienne heaved his suitcases inside, followed them, and shut the door. “The couch has drawers underneath. I put your current call-sheets and latest sides in there, as well as the most recent copy of the script. There’s a laptop, if you don’t have your own, no password protection. I loaded it with the video of your fight scenes, if you’re interested, but Sandor will start walking you through the first one tomorrow.” 

“At seven,” Jaime said, and Brienne gave a slow blink, as if he’d surprised her by remembering the detail for a whole ten minutes. He gave her a hard smile. “I’m sure that of all the things you’ve heard about me, not one of them is that I’m bad at my job. So Clegane is the fight choreographer?”

“You’ve worked with him before?”

“Oh, yes. He’s given me some of my best bruises, over the years, although I’m sure I’ve given him as many. Is he working stunts as well?”

“No, he …” Brienne trailed off.

Jaime grimaced, turned away before she could see it. “Doesn’t fit Oleanna Tyrell’s idea of pleasing aesthetics?” Sandor Clegane was a dour son-of-a-bitch and quite possibly the worst company Jaime could imagine – at least, outside of his relatives by blood and marriage – but he was talented and hardworking. _There are those scars, though … _

“There’s just not a role for him,” Brienne said quickly. “That’s all.”

“So loyal to your employer.” Jaime picked up one of his suitcases and tossed it through the doorway to land on the bed. “Olenna must be delighted in you.”

“I don’t work for Olenna Tyrell. I work for Davos Seaworth.”

“And how does Catelyn Stark come into it?”

Blue eyes blinked at him. _Really, absurdly pretty eyes in that mess of a face._ “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“She’s the casting agent for _Oathkeeper. _And … it’s Robb’s first lead.”

“Oh, Stranger fuck me sideways!” Jaime flung his second suitcase after the first, heard it bounce and something in the bedroom shatter. “If Catelyn Stark is doing casting, what in Seven Hells am I doing here? She’d claw out her own eyes before she recommended _me_ for a job.”

“I …” Brienne bit her lip. “I think it was Ms Tyrell’s decision.” 

“Oh, I see.” He spun to face her. “And you’re Catelyn’s price, I suppose? Hired to keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t _Aerys Targaryen_ her precious son?”

“Actually, I –”

Jaime turned his back on her. “Oh, go away. There’s no trouble I can get into in the next five hours unless you’ve hidden the vodka, hookers and cocaine under the couch as well.”


	3. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime settles in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on ages. I meant to make the characters closer to their book ages than their show ages, but then I aged Brienne and Sandor up a little to give them a backstory, Joffrey also turned out to be older, and looking ahead Sansa, Jon Snow, and Arya are going to be older than their book selves too if they appear. So, uh … consistency is clearly not my strong suit here.

Once Brienne had stomped out of his trailer, Jaime went to find out what damage his tantrum had done. A broken lamp, not as bad as he feared when he’d heard glass break. _Could have been a mirror. _The last thing he needed was another seven years of bad luck. He unpacked quickly, years of practice coming to his aid, tossing T-shirts and tracksuit pants into drawers. In King’s Landing, his job required him to be a clotheshorse, whether on the red carpet or stepping out to buy the morning paper. On location, he’d spend more time in costume than out of it, and whatever scant hours he had away from the set would be holed up learning lines and trying to make sense of whatever Olenna Tyrell gave him in the way of direction.

He hung up his coat, investigated the trailer’s bathroom – no bath, which was to be expected, but still a disappointment, given how sore Jaime was sure he’d be after working with Sandor Clegane – and rummaged in the fridge. Cheese, crackers, fruit – Brienne Tarth had undersold herself. There was even a single-serve mini-bottle of white wine. Jaime made himself a plate, poured himself a glass, and dug the laptop out of the drawer. He sprawled on the couch, plate on his chest, glass in hand, laptop propped against his legs, and poked his way through the folders until he found one labelled _First Day_.

He clicked _play_ on the first video, mildly disgruntled by Brienne’s lack of faith in him. _The coat she brings tomorrow will probably have the gloves sewn to the sleeves so I don’t lose them. _

Sandor Clegane appeared on the screen, smaller than life but just as ugly. He was wearing cold-weather athletic gear, and both the light falling on the padded walls behind him and the way his breath steamed in the air showed he was outdoors. “One eighth time,” he said to the camera, and then stepped back, and back again, until he was in full-length view, and raised his sword. _One-handed grip, no shield, not even a buckler_. Jaime sighed. _One day I’ll find myself working on a film that has a vaguely realistic grip on fight scenes. _From the look on Clegane’s face, he was thinking the same thing as he moved slowly through a sequence of thrusts, slashes and parries against invisible opponents. Then again, at one quarter time, at one half time, finally at full speed.

Jaime ate a piece of cheese, sipped his wine, and played it again. Even without any other stuntmen on the screen, he could tell it was a fight against multiple opponents. He leaned over and groped in the drawer under the couch for his copy of the script, nearly spilling his wine before he found it. It was neatly tabulated with a forest of Post-It Notes down the side, and it only took him a few moments to find the relevant scene and scan it. _Oh good, this isn’t my death scene. That comes_ … he thumbed pages and found it in the second act. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Certainly, his character – apparently named _Lion_ – had weaselled his way into the _Icefort_ under false pretences, and died trying to kill _Wolf, _who was probably Robb Stark. However, he would have one solid speech making it clear that _Lion’s_ motivation to murder _Wolf_ was the mistaken belief that _Wolf_ had killed his sister, which was definitely a step up from the unrepentant scumbags Jaime had been playing for the past decade and a half.

_Lion: You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children. Say her name!_

Jaime mouthed the words. _Yes, I can work with that. I mean, I convincingly sold “I rarely fling small children from towers to improve their health”, after all. _That role had won him an Iron Throne nomination, although Renly Baratheon had taken home the statute on the night. _Hard to compete against that death scene he had in “Five Kings”, I suppose. _And of course, Renly had played a hero in that film. Heroes won in life as well as on-screen, in Jaime’s experience.

He flipped back to the scene he’d been watching. The directions said simply _As the walls are overrun,_ _Lion is attacked by several opponents, but prevails._ He watched it through twice more, watching Clegane’s feet, and then opened the next file. This one had the same fight but with opponents. They ran through the choreography so slowly it was almost performance art, and then faster, and faster again – blade kissed blade and Jaime’s pulse quickened, even though he knew the blades were not just blunt, but so light they’d break before they did any real injury. Clegane ducked, swung, parried – responded with a counter-riposte that Jaime had to go back and watch at half-speed again. _Left, left – feint – weight back and turn – _

Whoever Sandor Clegane had got for this film, they were good, especially the tall stuntman who was standing in for _Lion’s_ main opponent. _Very good_, Jaime thought, watching him sideslip a thrust and slam an elbow into Clegane’s face as convincingly as if it wasn’t pulled at all. He was almost sorry when the dictates of the narrative required Clegane to cut him down and he fell, blue knit cap a sharp contrast to the grey padded floor. _He’d have given Clegane a decent fight, if the script allowed it. _And Clegane was among the best. Jaime knew he’d spent years working in Close Personal Protection between film gigs, until his reputation and experience grew enough for him to make a living full-time out of stunts and fight choreography. Clegane brought that experience to his work the way he brought it to his fights at Ice and Fire Re-enactment Faire. He was big, he was fast, and he was brutal.

Jaime went back to the beginning of the first video. _Right – left, left – feint _– he could feel the weight of a sword in his hand instead of his half-full glass. _Duck and turn, fake a fall, back and up …_ the second video again, then the first, and then the second again. _Swing, dodge, pivot and thrust … _it would be real snow, not fake, when they came to film. It would change the footing. Jaime made a note to check what sort of soles his boots would have. _I hope to fuck not authentic leather._ He’d slide arse over tits every time he tried to move.

_Left, left – feint – weight back and turn –_

Somewhere between his fifth and his tenth viewing, his eyes closed, and the muted _whack_ of prop swords faded into the ring of the blunted blades used by duellists at the Ice and Fire Re-enactment Faire. Jaime had met Sandor Clegane in the ring two years ago, and it was as clear against his eyelids as it had been on the day. Clegane was fast as well as big, favouring lighter armour and a heavier shield, while Jaime preferred plate and buckler. With more time and money to spend on the hobby of fighting like it was still 300 AC than most, there weren’t many who could give Jaime a real challenge, but Sandor Clegane was certainly one of them. He liked to close fast and use his size and strength, but Jaime had the agility and speed to keep him at bay. They’d fought to a draw in the end, both gasping for breath, but as the memory faded into a dream, they were still striking and dodging, circling around each other, probing for weakness. The sword in Jaime’s hand was real, a sharp dark steel with red ripples along the blade, and Clegane’s was real as well. Each time Jaime deflected a thrust with his buckler the impact jarred his arm, and he could hear Clegane grunting with effort at every parry. Steel met steel and sang sweetly, and the sun stood still in the sky as they fought back and forth. Jaime was winning, he could sense the other man’s growing fatigue in his slowing movements, and he pressed the advantage. _This time, no draw. This time –_

“Mr Lannister,” Brienne said disapprovingly, and Jaime jolted awake. 

He was sprawled on the couch, empty glass in hand, the laptop beside him having long since shut itself down. He had to crane his neck to look up at her enormous height. “There’s a thing called knocking, woman.”

Her jaw set. “I did knock. And my name is –”

“Brienne, Brienne, Brienne.” Jaime set the laptop on the floor and sat up. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to seven.” Brienne dropped a great pile of clothes in his lap. “Get dressed. I’ll wait outside.”

She shut the door behind her hard enough to make the trailer shake a little. Jaime could almost imagine he could feel her disapprobation radiating clear through the wall as he shook the clothes out. The same sort of winter sportswear Clegane and the other stuntmen had been wearing in the videos, an enormously puffy coat, and an equally puffy set of trousers. Jaime took three minutes for a shower, dressed with practiced speed and was out the door with five minutes to spare.

Brienne looked him up and down. “You’ll need proper boots, too. We’ll be getting snow every night before long.”

“If the drifts get too high, you’ll just have to carry me,” Jaime said. He grinned when she scowled. “I’m sure you could manage it.”

“Do you take _nothing_ seriously?” she demanded.

“Do you take _everything_ seriously?” he countered.

“When it involves a multi-million-dollar production with hundreds of people all depending on everyone else doing their job, yes, Mr Lannister, I take everything seriously.” Brienne turned on her heel and began to stride away, not looking back to see if Jaime followed.

He had to stretch his legs to catch up with her without breaking into a run. “Whatever you’ve heard about me, I defy you to say I’ve ever been less than professional.”

Brienne’s lip curled. “Stabbing a co-star is professional? And I’ve just found you passed out drunk on your first day on location.”

Jaime glared at her. “You can’t have it both ways, woman. Either I’m an inveterate alcoholic or I’m such a lightweight one glass of wine has me under the table.” 

“My _name_ is _Brienne_, Mr Lannister.”

“Mr Lannister is my father. I’m _Jaime._”

“I prefer not to be on first name terms with murderers.”

“And yet you want me to use yours,” Jaime shot back.

She came to an abrupt halt in front of a high wall and non-descript door. “This is the stunt rehearsal space. Do you want something from craft services?”

“Coffee,” Jaime said. _And hopefully she won’t spit in it._ “And something involving bacon.” He’d burn the calories, working with Sandor Clegane.

Brienne gave one short nod and strode away, and Jaime opened the door in front of him and stepped into what experience had taught him would be his own personal torture chamber for the next few days.


	4. Brienne I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister is unrepentantly vile, but Brienne has a job to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to be using a fair few quotes, references and re-purposed lines from both ASOIAF and GoT going forward.

Brienne had been planning to settle in a corner with a thermos of tea and this month’s edition of _List of Lists, _and catch up on all the details of the last Ice and Fire Re-enactment Faire. If Jaime Lannister had been responsible enough to set an alarm and wake up early enough to eat breakfast, that would have been exactly what she would be doing.

Instead she was queuing for coffee and _something involving bacon_, because when she’d finally given up on getting an answer to her knocking and barged into his trailer, Brienne had found the Kingslayer passed out on the couch in a litter of script pages, crushed crackers and his laptop.

_I don’t know what else I expected. _The man was vile, unrepentantly so. What kind of monster could be so casually contemptuous of a man his own cousin – or _son_, as rumours said and Catelyn swore – had murdered so horribly? What kind of person could take a life and feel no stronger emotion than irritation at being reminded of it?

Brienne had seen more than a few of Jaime Lannister’s films. Not that she’d seen them for him, of course, but most of the films she liked, the ones set back in the Age of Heroes, had Lannister in them, all sarcastic charm and attractive evil. Brienne had seen him interviewed a few times, and he was just the same as himself as he was in his films. _Gorgeous and golden and vile. _He played only one role, on and off the screen.

And now it was Brienne’s responsibility to keep him sober and out of trouble until _Oathkeeper_ finished filming. That wasn’t anywhere in her official job description as a personal assistant, of course, but Davos Seaworth had made it quietly clear that her _other duties as required _involved making sure Jaime Lannister didn’t do anything tabloid-worthy for the two months he’d be on location at Winterfell Castle, and that the assignment came from Olenna Tyrell. It wasn’t a particularly appealing job, spending her time trailing around behind a scumbag like Lannister, but Ms Tyrell was the director and so Brienne would just have to grit her teeth and get through it.

_I just hope she doesn’t hear that I nearly let him be late on his first day on production. _

She reached the front of the queue and collected an insulated cup of coffee and a bacon and egg roll for Lannister, and a cup of tea for herself. As little as she wanted to see Lannister’s smug face again, she didn’t let her steps lag as she strode back to the custom-built arena where Sandor Clegane worked out the choreography for fight scenes and trained the actors and stunt men to carry them out.

Yesterday, Brienne had been in there, sword in hand, delighting in the dance. Not that she’d been hired for stunt-work, but Sandor had remembered her from this year’s Fire and Ice Fair. He’d even seen her fight, even though Brienne didn’t have the cash or connections for the armour she’d need to duel in the main area.

For Brienne, the Fire and Ice Faire was a home-sewn boiled leather breastplate and sweaty sparring against equally ill-equipped opponents in front of _maybe_ as many as five observers. She loved it anyway, as much as she longed to be in fine plate and fighting for the applause of hundreds. Lightly armoured, even a glancing blow would raise a bruise that would last for weeks, and that edge of danger made the contest keener. She had won her class this year, not that anyone cared, meeting and matching every blow aimed at her, eschewing the crowd-pleasing flashy manoeuvres and relying on her strength and endurance, the speed of her reflexes and her natural agility.

At least, she’d thought that no-one cared, but big, scarred Sandor Clegane had apparently noticed, though he’d said nothing at the time.

Brienne had turned up for her first day of work on _Oathkeeper_, without the faintest idea what she was supposed to do on a film set. _Davos will find you something to do, but just keep an eye on Robb for me_, Catelyn Stark had said. _I trust you, after what you did for Sansa and Arya. _

_Not that I did much_, Brienne had thought, a lump in her throat and heat behind her eyes at the thought of how useless she’d been that horrible night. But Catelyn had always refused to hear her explanations, and so Brienne had nodded, and promised to do her best to take care of Robb Stark, and turned up at Winterfell Castle with no idea what she was expected to do beyond that.

_Fight_, had been the answer, once Sandor had spotted her in the queue for lunch. He’d hauled her off to talk to Davos Seaworth, and Davos had looked her up and down and said _she looks like she can take care of herself, alright._ That afternoon Brienne had found herself in the padded rehearsal space that was Sandor’s domain, weighing a prop sword in her hand. It wasn’t like _real_ fighting, with Sandor calling a break every few minutes, making notes, ordering Brienne to repeat what she’d just done and then calling a break again. Still, it was something she could do, something she was good at, something that she sometimes felt she was better at than others might have been. And at the end of the day, Sandor would raise his sword and growl _come on then, if you dare_ and they’d spend half-an-hour or longer going at each other without choreography, breaks, or mercy. The prop swords had the wrong weight and the padded floor threw off Brienne’s balance, but still, she beat Sandor at least three times a week, even though some of their bouts lasted until the sun was gone from the sky and they were both almost too tired to raise their swords.

That was over now, though. Brienne had a new job, one that involved fetching and carrying rather than thrusting and parrying, and her conscience wouldn’t allow her to either resent it or do it badly.

She tucked the cups between her arm and body and opened the door.

Having only been gone for half-an-hour or so, Brienne expected to see Jaime Lannister bundled up, watching Sandor demonstrate his choreography. Instead, he was already stripped to fleece top and leggings, sword in hand, stepping through the movements of the fight at almost full speed. He handled the prop sword as if it were a real one – Brienne couldn’t tell how he did it, knowing from her own experience that the weight and the balance were all wrong – and his face wore the fierce expression of someone fighting, not just for victory, but for his life. He was impossibly light on his feet, as graceful as a dancer and, with the morning sun lighting his flying golden hair, the very image of the Warrior himself.

Lannister went to one knee, rocked back up and turned, sword raised to block a blow from an imaginary opponent, and saw Brienne. He stopped, and came towards her. “Give me ten, Sandor,” he called over his shoulder.

Brienne didn’t put his coffee and breakfast into his reaching hands. “You should put your coat back on, first, or you’ll chill.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Yes, Nanny.”

She gritted her teeth. “My name –”

“I know your name.” He strode over to the wall, scooped up his coat and shrugged into it. “There.” He batted his absurdly long eyelashes at her. “May I have my breakfast now?”

Brienne gritted her teeth and handed him his coffee and roll. “Do you need anything else?”

Lannister sipped his coffee, took a bite of the bacon roll, and shook his head. “Not now,” he said with his mouth full. “But I’ll need –” he chewed, swallowed, and took a gulp of coffee. “I’ll need to see the boots that go with my costume. The whole thing, if you can sort that out with wardrobe. And I want to walk the shooting sites, when they’re not being used. Can you schedule that?”

Brienne blinked. It was a far more practical request than everything she knew about Jaime Lannister had led her to expect. Not top-shelf vodka, or imported smoked fish from the Iron Islands, or sheets of Myrish silk, just entirely reasonable professional expectations. “Yes,” she said at last, after slightly too long. “I’ll let you know at lunch.”

“Lannister!” Sandor called. “Shall we call it a day? Are you worn out?”

Lannister grinned, sharp and wild and a little mad, and thrust his coffee cup and what was left of his sandwich back into Brienne’s hands. “Oh, no, Clegane. I’m just getting started.”


	5. Jaime IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsal and rumination.

Sweat ran into Jaime’s eyes. He blinked, shook his head, and raised his sword again. _Left, left, feint right_ –

“Take a break,” Clegane said.

“I’m _fine_,” Jaime snarled. He gathered himself. _Left, left – feint – weight back and turn –_

A sword was there to meet his, hard enough to jar Jaime to his teeth.

“Take a fucking break, Lannister,” Clegane said. “We’re three days ahead of schedule as it is. If you break anything before shooting starts _I’ll_ be filling in the fucking forms, so do me a favour, and take. A. Break.”

Jaime sighed, and lowered his sword. He scrubbed sweat from his eyes with his cuff. “I should have this –”

“You do have it.” Clegane took the sword from him, and then picked up Jaime’s coat and tossed it to him. “You’re overrunning the timing because you only have me against you. Once we get someone else in here, you’ll be fine.”

Jaime shrugged into his coat. “Where are they? Your crew?”

Clegane shrugged. “Beric turned his knee yesterday. He’ll be out for a few weeks, and we’re still getting someone in to replace him.”

“Beric?” Jaime picked up the thermos of water by the wall and took a deep drink. “Beric Dondarrion? I heard he died.”

“You heard wrong.” Clegane slotted both swords into their case and picked up his own thermos. “I’m trying to get Thoros Myr up here to replace him, but you know what it’s like.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows. Thoros Myr reliably placed in the top ten at the Ice and Fire Faire, but as far as Jaime knew Thoros had never worked in film or theatre. “Thoros is good, but I didn’t know he did stunt work. Isn’t he some sort of priest?”

“Aye, one of them fire-eaters for the Red God,” Clegane said. “But he can take a hit, and give one, and he knows which end of a sword to hold, which puts him ahead of most.”

“What about your other guy?” Jaime finished his water and wandered over to the sword rack.

“What other guy?” Clegane followed Jaime, watching as he picked up one sword and then another.

_Ah, can’t let the talent near the props unsupervised. I might drop one on my foot and cost the production tens of thousands in shooting delays while the bruise healed. _Jaime faked a fumble, grinned at Clegane’s ferocious scowl. “The one in the video. He looked like he knew what he was doing.”

Clegane guffawed. “That wasn’t a guy,” he said. “That was your bodyguard.”

Jaime turned to stare at him. “Bodyguard? I don’t have a bodyguard.”

“Brienne Tarth.” Clegane took the sword from Jaime’s hand and put it away again. “Big woman, brought you breakfast.”

“She’s …” Jaime shook his head a little. “She’s my assistant. Well, baby-sitter, really, not that I need one. And not that she’d admit it.”

Clegane snorted. “That’s a waste. You know she was on Renly Baratheon’s security detail?” He moved to the wall, tapping the padding, checking it hadn’t come loose. “I would have thought you know that, given she was there that night.”

“What night?” But Jaime knew _what night_. That night at the Baelor, Clegane meant, _that night your not-so-secret son used an invitation you secured for him to commit bloody murder. _“Well, she can’t be very good at her job, can she, given what happened. No wonder Renly fired her.”

Clegane glared at him. “She wasn’t there to search the other guests. She did as well as anyone could have, better than most.”

“Or so she told you,” Jaime scoffed. “Everyone is the hero of their own story.”

“I was there,” Clegane growled. “I saw her tackle Renly behind a table and cover him with her own body. And that little cunt was still waving his gun around when she got up again and grabbed the Stark girls out of the line of fire. I’m surprised you don’t know all that. It all came out at the trial.”

“I didn’t attend,” Jaime said coldly. “It was nothing to do with me. _Joffrey_ is nothing to do with me.”

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the rehearsal space.

_Nothing to do with me_. It was almost true, it was entirely false, it was a lie that felt realer than the facts. _Joffrey never was _my_ son. My sperm went into the making of him, but he was never _mine_. He was Cersei’s son, Cersei’s and that fat drunken oaf she thought would make her the queen of King’s Landing. _Jaime had spent the hours of Cersei’s labour in the waiting room: Robert Baratheon had spent them in a bar. And yet, when it was over and he was allowed in, Cersei hadn’t even let him hold the boy. _You’re my cousin, Cersei,_ Jaime had argued._ We grew up together. There’s nothing for anyone to be suspicious about in a man holding his cousin’s child. _But no, she’d been adamant, had stayed adamant through two more pregnancies, two more deliveries, two more newborns Jaime had sired but would never be allowed to father.

Jaime slammed into his trailer and dragged off the fat padded coat, wishing he really _was_ the debauched reprobate of tabloid stories and popular imagination. _Being stinking drunk sounds decidedly appealing right about now. _He flung himself down on the couch and closed his eyes. _Would it have worked out differently, if I’d insisted? If I’d ignored Cersei, and told Robert the truth when Joffrey was born? Is he what she and he made him, or is he what she and _I_ made?_

_He’ll get the help he needs, now_, Tyrion’s argument, but Jaime had wondered then and wondered still if there was any possible _help_ for Joffrey Baratheon. Avoid the trial and the news of the trial as he might, there would always be the image seared on his mind from the rolling news coverage on _that night_: Joffrey, small and slight and so very young, being led out by two impassive police officers, smiling at the cameras and trying to wave despite his handcuffs. _Like he was walking a fucking red carpet. _

His head jerked up at a brisk knock on the door. “Yes?”

It was Brienne. Brienne, who according to Clegane had been there _that night_. Jaime scowled at her. “What?”

“You’re booked in with Wardrobe tomorrow at two. And –” She held out a sheet of paper. “I need your lunch and dinner preferences.”

Jaime snatched it from her fingers and tossed it on the table. “I’ll look at it later.”

Brienne looked at her watch. “I won’t have time to get a to-go box ordered for today’s lunch if you don’t –”

“Clegane is finished with me for today, I can fetch my own bloody meals,” Jaime snapped.

Her eyebrows went up, her expression of surprise making her look even stupider than usual. “Already? But you’ve got a week blocked out for rehearsal –”

“Argue with Clegane, not with me!” Jaime snarled. “Gods be good, woman, don’t you think I’d rather be working? It’s not like this Seven-forsaken shithole offers much in the way of entertainment. Or _anything _in the way of entertainment, for that matter.”

“This is a significant historical site, Mr Lannister,” Brienne said stiffly. _Yes, gods forbid I insult her precious Starks. _“Not a _shithole_. And my name is –”

“Brienne, Brienne, _Brienne_, I fucking know your name!” He shot to his feet. “Go pester Clegane about where I’m supposed or not supposed to be, for fuck’s sake. He sung your praises enough, he’ll be glad to see you. _I’m_ not.”

She flushed, her brilliant blue eyes wide with hurt, then turned on her heel, and left without another word. _Good_. Let Sandor Clegane deal with Brienne Tarth’s stiff-necked insistence on the letter of her duties. The man had sounded half-in-love with her, after all. _Well, they’re ugly enough for each other and almost the same size._

He turned on the shower, stripped off, and stepped in. Gods, Brienne had almost looked like she was going to cry at the end. _Her own fault, the stupid stubborn woman. She should have taken a hint and left me alone. _His foul mood had been her fault too, anyway. _It was Clegane talking about her, her and _that night_. So, her fault, and Clegane’s. _

“Mr Lannister?” Brienne said from right outside the bathroom door. “Mr Lannister?”

Jaime swore, grabbed a towel and slung it around his waist. He jerked the door open. “_What_?”

Brienne gave him one startled glance, blushed scarlet and turned her back. _Gods be good, you’d think she’d never seen a man’s chest before._ “I talked to Sandor. If you tell Davos that you want me to rehearse the fights with you, and he agrees, Sandor says we can start again after lunch.”

“You,” Jaime said slowly.

“I have been … Sandor said you knew I’d …”

“Yes, yes, he said it was you on the video.” _He also mentioned you were the one who quite possibly prevented my vicious cunt of a son from turning a murder into a massacre. _A massacre of Starks, it sounded like one of those obscure collective nouns. _A massacre of Starks, a murder of crows, an unkindness of ravens. _

_A gossip of Littlefingers, a scandal of Sand Snakes, a tartness of Tyrells …_

“So?” Brienne asked, and Jaime realised he’d been silent for longer than he’d realised. “I can show you where Davos is, if you … I mean, when you’ve …”

Jaime snorted. “Dressed?” he said dryly, and even that oblique reference to his nudity made Brienne’s ears turn pink. “Give me a couple of minutes.”

“I’ll wait outside,” Brienne said quickly, and made her escape without so much as looking at him again.

Jaime dried off and dressed quickly, still amused by how disconcerted Brienne had been to see him, as if she hadn’t made the mental connection between the sound of the shower and the owner of the shower being undressed. He shrugged into his coat, contemplated and rejected the matching insulated trousers, and stepped out the door.

Brienne was standing a few feet away, hands in her pockets. She still seemed unable to look at him. _Yes, Brienne, I’m naked under my clothes_. “So, Seaworth?”

“This way.” Brienne turned and trudged in what Jaime remembered was the direction of the gate.

He caught her up. “So, you said I’d need better shoes.”

She glanced at his feet. “Yes. Those will do for now, but you’ll need something with more insulation soon. I can ask wardrobe –”

“_I_ can ask wardrobe.” Jaime met her suspicious scowl with his best charming smile. “I mean, you’ll need to have time for rehearsal.”

She stopped dead. “What are you doing?”

He raised one eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Brienne said stolidly. “You’re pretending to be nice.”

Jaime bristled. “I’m not _pretending_,” he snapped. Brienne raised her eyebrows, enough of a comment to make Jaime scowl at her. “Fine. I _am_ pretending. Why do you make it so hard to be nice to you?”

Her eyes widened. “Me? All I’ve done is try to do my job.”

“Well, you’re certainly _trying_.” Jaime took a deep breath. “Look. I don’t find it exactly flattering to spend my days handcuffed to a minder as if I can’t be trusted on my own recognisance. I know it’s not your fault, but I don’t enjoy it. And you haven’t exactly been welcoming yourself, have you? So can we _try_ to be friends?”

Brienne looked him up and down, lip curling. “No. I don’t make friends with murderers.” She pointed past him. “That’s the trailer you want. If Davos agrees, I’ll see you after lunch.”

Jaime watched her stomp away.

_Aerys. _

_It always comes back to fucking Aerys. _

He forced himself to unclench his fists, and strode toward the gates, needing a moment to get his temper under control before talking to Seaworth. _Stubborn, stupid woman_. Jaime was used to being remembered for that one bloody moment when he’d been just seventeen. He’d had more than a decade-and-a-half to get used to it. _Hells, my career is partly built on leaning in to being the Kingslayer. _A goodly proportion of his box-office draw was the titillating possibility for movie-goers that they were watching a real-life murderer playing a fictional one.

Still, somehow, Brienne’s obdurate hostility was not just irritating, but infuriating, her suspicious blue eyes not just judging but _condemning_ him. _As if she’d have managed to do better._ Oh, she might be brave enough, if Sandor’s story was true, but in that moment …

Jaime reached the gate. The security guard was less heavily muffled than last night, a slightly-built young man who must have prayed daily to grow into his ears.

He gave Jaime a quizzical look. “Going out? I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Jaime sighed. “I know, I don’t have the right boots.” He offered his hand. “Jaime.”

“Pyp,” the guard said, shaking Jaime’s hand. “And that’s not why. Listen.”

At first Jaime heard nothing, and then a distant roar. It grew louder and louder and resolved itself into a dozen motorcycle engines. In another moment they came into view, hogs and choppers all, gleaming with chrome, their riders helmetless. Jaime got a glimpse of a goat with bloody horns on the back of a couple of leather jackets as they passed. “Local gang?”

Pyp nodded. “The Brave Companions. They make their money providing –” He gestured with his fingers. “Security. For this film, among other things.”

“Nice film-set, shame if anything happened to it?” Jaime guessed, and Pyp nodded again. “Are they dangerous?”

Pyp shrugged. “Never been charged with anything but traffic violations, and we’ve tried.” Jaime raised his eyebrows, and Pyp grinned. “This isn’t my day job. Well, it _is_ my day job at the moment, but I’m with the Watch. This is just a bit of extra money for a few of us.”

_The Watch_. Jaime had almost forgotten that little difference between the south and the north of the Neck. Gold Cloaks kept order in the south, but up here, it was the Watch. Once, it had been the _Night’s_ Watch, or so people argued, although there wasn’t much in the old stories of the Age of Heroes or the Age of Ice and Fire that could be taken as definite fact. “So we have black brothers watching over us.”

Pyp stood a little straighter, chest puffed out. “S’right. Me, Grenn, Ed, Jon – crows, one and all. It’s only right, after all.” At Jaime’s look of puzzlement, Pyp gestured behind them at the castle walls. “The Night’s Watch protecting Winterfell and a film about the Long Night _at_ Winterfell. And in the real Long Night, Winterfell was where the Night’s Watch made their last stand. Along with everyone else, of course.”

_The _real_ Long Night_. Jaime was careful not to smile. _That’s like talking about the _real_ dragons. _He’d have to read the rest of the script tonight, not just the scenes he was in, and see how Olenna Tyrell was intending to handle the myth.

_Robb Stark_ _will save the day, of course. _That was a given. 

_Robb Stark will save the day, and I’ll die a dishonourable death, as befits a villain. _

Because it always, _always_, came back to Aerys Targaryen. 


	6. Brienne II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A swordfight in slow, and not-so-slow, motion.

Brienne didn’t want to be grateful to Jaime Lannister. He was horrible, rude, and cruel. _And_ _a murderer!_

But he had persuaded Davos Seaworth to agree that Brienne should work with Jaime and Sandor rehearsing Jaime’s fight scenes. It was due to him that she was currently rotating her arms and bouncing from foot-to-foot, warming up for an afternoon spent in far more enjoyable activity than fetching coffee and keeping track of run-sheets.

On the other side of the padded rehearsal space, Lannister was already swinging a prop sword in wide arcs. He wasn’t as tall as Sandor, or as physically imposing, but then, who was? Lannister might not have Sandor’s height, but he was taller than most, almost as tall as Brienne, and even the simple movements of his warm-up showed his easy grace. She’d seen his victories in _List of Lists_ occasionally, but she’d never given them much credence. Any actor would be a fool to take on a tough opponent in a sport that could easily lead to a broken nose or a black eye, so Brienne had always assumed Lannister matched himself against those he could beat easily, seeking publicity rather than a real fight. Watching him now as he began to step through the intricate footwork of the fight, she began to wonder if that was indeed the case.

Sandor picked up a prop sword and tossed it to Brienne. “You take zombie two, zombie four, and the Walker. I’ll be zombies one, three, and five.”

Brienne nodded, weighing the sword in her hand. She couldn’t feeling a little nervous, despite how often she’d been through the choreography as Sandor worked it out and rehearsed it. Sandor had always played the _Lion_ part in the fight, and he was not just taller and heavier than Lannister, but significantly tougher. He’d taught Brienne how to pull her blows, but she’d always been confident that if she fouled it up, Sandor could shake off any punch she threw. _Hit Jaime Lannister, though_ … he was pretty enough to break in half, and even if he didn’t, bruising him would be a problem for filming.

She was relieved that Sandor started them at half-speed. _Slash – stab – die. _The zombies were apparently terrible fighters, and it had taken Brienne a number of rehearsals to over-ride the instinct to parry when _Lion_ swung at her head. She took the fall, rolled and came up again. Lannister was facing Sandor now, finishing off zombie three with a flourishing thrust, and Brienne swung a slow overhead at him. Lannister turned, ducked, and zombie three met its untimely end with a sword in the belly. Zombie five was tougher, managing to close with _Lion_, and Sandor and Lannister grappled in slow motion for a few moments until Lannister hooked one foot around Sandor’s ankle and zombie five fell to be stabbed to death on the ground.

_And now the Walker appears. _According to Sandor, the Walkers were the main boss fights for the movie, and he’d certainly given them much more satisfying swordplay than the zombies. Brienne faced Lannister and raised her sword slowly, trying to make it look menacing. Lannister turned, faked shock, and raised his own blade.

“Come dance with me, then,” he said softly.

_Thrust and parry, dodge and turn_. Lannister’s sword was there to block Brienne’s at every turn. The Walker gave ground, side-stepped and stuck again. _Lion_ dodged, turned, parried and struck. Brienne met the blow and held position, facing Lannister over their blades. It was the one staple of every movie swordfight that never failed to irritate her, the unrealistic contest of strength inserted purely to allow the actors to grimace at each other. If they’d really been fighting, Brienne would have slipped the blow and, hopefully, stepped inside the reach of her opponent’s sword.

Instead she held her position, counting silently. _Ten, eleven, twelve …_

“I always hate this,” Lannister said softly. Startled, Brienne met his gaze, and he grinned. “Not many people know, but this would _never_ happen in a real fight.”

“I would have parried, stepped inside and elbowed you in the face,” Brienne agreed. _Twenty five, twenty six. _

Lannister’s green gaze sharpened. “You might have tried,” he said, sounding interested. “I’d be too fast for you, though.”

Brienne snorted. “I doubt it.” _Thirty eight, thirty nine, forty – and break_. She pushed and stepped back, bringing her sword up to an ox-guard that it was completely unsuitable for. Lannister did the same, which was absurd, and they circled each other for ten slow steps.

Then Lannister raised a hand, lowered his sword, and stepped back. “Stop a minute.”

Brienne nodded. She put her blade down and jogged over to the wall. Tossing Lannister’s coat to him, she shrugged into her own. She expected another snide remark about her nannying, but Lannister instead gave her a remarkably genuine-seeming smile as he rugged up again. “Thanks.” He turned to Sandor. “How wedded is the Queen of Thorns to this choreography?”

“She hasn’t seen it,” Sandor said. He shrugged. “Hired me on the back of my work on _Rubies Over The Trident_, so I’m guessing she wants something similar but different. Don’t you like it?”

“You know I don’t like it,” Lannister said. “And you knew I _wouldn’t_ like it. One staring contest in a fight is … well, it’s one too many, but it’s certainly _enough_.” He was right, although Brienne felt a little treasonous agreeing with Lannister over Sandor. “Look, after the stand-off, why doesn’t the … what’s the monster called?”

“Walker,” Brienne supplied.

“Right, the Walker, it – he, whatever – goes on the attack.” He gestured at Brienne, and she moved where he pointed. “Forward, forward – that’s it. I back up _here_ – they won’t need to reset if I stay inside the frame – and then –”

“Lannister,” Sandor said patiently. “You know the problem. You can’t look better than the lead, and, well … Robb Stark isn’t very good.”

“He’s not bad,” Brienne said immediately. “He works hard. It’s just that he hasn’t had as much practice.”

Lannister rolled his eyes. “You’re very boring on the subject of Starks, you know.”

“I’d rather be boring than wrong,” Brienne snapped back.

“Unfortunately, you’re both,” Lannister drawled. He turned to Sandor again. “I’m sure you can make young Stark look good without me looking quite so terrible.”

Sandor scowled. “We only have six more days of rehearsal.”

“You and I know I’ll have both fights down by the end of tomorrow,” Lannister countered. “I don’t mind not winning a fight, Clegane, I just resent looking like I only learned which end of a sword to hold yesterday.”

“What about …” Both men turned to look at her, and Brienne swallowed. “I mean, I don’t know much about film-fighting, but I do know about fighting. What if _Lion_ traps the Walker’s sword? Take those back steps, like Mr Lannister said –”

“_Jaime_,” Lannister corrected.

Brienne ignored him. “And then take a fall, and the Walker stabs down –”

Lannister nodded. “Roll, trap, thrust upwards.” He looked at Sandor. “It’s a Hail Maiden save, _Lion_ doesn’t look too good, and I don’t have to spend half the fight staring intensely at the enemy.”

Sandor chewed his lip. “Show me how it would look,” he said at last.

Lannister shrugged out of his coat and tossed it away. He raised an eyebrow at Brienne. “Come on, then, woman. Kill me if you can.”

“Brienne,” she said. She took off her own coat and placed it carefully by the wall, then scooped up her sword. “From the clinch?”

“From the clinch,” Lannister agreed. They met, blades raised. “Full speed,” Lannister said.

“We haven’t –”

“I can’t hurt you with one of _these_,” Lannister said.

Brienne set her teeth. “I’m not worried about _you_ hurting _me_,” she said between them. “Thirty eight, forty – _go_!”

They broke apart, but this time Brienne didn’t strike a silly pose with her sword. She closed fast, striking Lannister’s blade aside. He had it back in position faster than she would have thought possible but he was backing up, on the defensive, and she knocked it away again, forced him onto the backfoot – Lannister went down and Brienne shifted her grip smoothly, ready to stab him – he rolled and her sword came down between his body and arm, came down and stuck – and his own sword was against her stomach.

She was panting, her breath making great clouds in the frigid air, and Jaime Lannister was breathing hard as well, his eyes wide. “Stranger fuck me, but you’re fast,” he said. He lowered his sword and released hers, getting to his feet. “Good form, too. Have you ever thought about –”

“Don’t embarrass yourself,” Sandor interrupted him. “You’re talking to this year’s winner of the FAIR Light Armour class. Between the two of you, I wouldn’t know who to bet on.”

Brienne felt her cheeks blaze at the sheer astonishment on Lannister’s face. _Yes, I’m a woman who can fight with a sword and shield. It’s not like there weren’t a few, back in the age of Ice and Fire._

“Light Armour?” Lannister said. “Gods be good, your balls are bigger than mine.”

Brienne glared at him. _Yes, that’s right. Anyone as big and strong as I am can’t be a _real_ woman. _A refrain she’d been hearing all her life. She turned on her heel, tossed her sword towards the rack, and snatched up her coat. “I need a break,” she said without turning to look at either of them, swung her coat around her shoulders and strode out.

“Wait!” Lannister called after her. She ignored him, but the next thing she knew he was at her heels, struggling into his own coat. “Damn it, woman, wait –”

She turned sharply. “My _name_,” she hissed, “is _Brienne_.”

Lannister blinked at her. “Brienne,” he said after a moment. “Brienne Tarth. Brave enough to fight in the Light Armour class and good enough to win it. I didn’t mean to offend you, although apparently I did.” She glared at him, and he spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I truly didn’t.”

“Alright,” she said at last, grudgingly. “Apology accepted.”

He looked so pleased with himself that Brienne immediately regretted it. “I’m sure Clegane has some tourney swords around. We could fight properly.”

Sandor _did_ have a couple of blunt swords, in fact, the ones he and Brienne had used to duel at the end of a day’s work, but she shook her head. “Not going to happen.”

“I’ll go easy on you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She snorted. “I’m worried about delaying the start of shooting by marring your pretty face.”

“Don’t worry, you wouldn’t have a chance.”

The arrogance of the man was unbelievable. Brienne ground her teeth, half-tempted to take him up on the offer and show him how wrong he was. But no. _If I injure him, I’ll get myself fired, and Catelyn is depending on me to make sure nothing happens to Robb._ “No.”

“Not so brave, after all,” Lannister said. “For a moment there I thought you might be not quite as tedious as you seem.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You won’t provoke me, Lannister.”

“Oh, I might, if I cared to try.” His smile was hard.

Brienne shrugged. “I doubt you could be more disagreeable, even if you did try. I’ve picked up your latest sides and left them in your trailer. Catering will bring your dinner at seven. And you have an appointment with wardrobe –”

“Tomorrow at two, yes, thank you, nanny, I remember.”

“Is there anything else?”

Lannister looked at her a moment, and then raked his fingers through his hair. “What do people do around here?”

Brienne blinked. “It’s a film set, Mr Lannister,” she said slowly. _Did he hit his head, taking that last fall? _“They, uh … they’re making a film.” 

Lannister gave a huff of laughter. “For fun,” he clarified. “What do people do around here for fun? Is there anywhere to go? I mean, what do you do, when you aren’t working?”

“Sleep, mostly,” Brienne said, although sharing a trailer with Ygritte Wildling wasn’t exactly conducive to peace and quiet. “There’s a town, well, sort of a town, Wintertown, a couple of miles away. But honestly, there’s not much to it: one bar, a general store.”

“Well, then, how about a tour?”

“Tour?”

“Yes, tour,” Lannister repeated patiently. “You were so insistent this is a significant historical site. You’re friends with the bloody Starks. Surely you know all the stories. You can show me around!”

Brienne hesitated. “They’re only filming in half the castle …”

“Then show me that half, and tell me about the bits behind the locked doors,” Lannister said. He turned and strode in the direction of the castle. “Come on!”

Brienne sighed, and followed.


	7. Jaime V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tour of Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this got, uh, a little rambley without much plot. Sorry!

Jaime had to admit to himself, however reluctantly, that Winterfell was impressive. The whole castle was ringed by two huge walls, one within the other, and as Brienne led him through the massive main gates he spotted plenty of murder holes.

“Wintertown used to be right outside the gates,” Brienne said. “Everyone thought it was just stories until a couple of decades ago when an archaeological dig found foundations, broken pottery, things like that. A layer of ash, too.”

“The Long Night,” Jaime said, and smiled at her startled glance. “I’ve read the stories, too. The Starks brought the villagers inside the castle and fired the town as the dead attacked.”

Brienne nodded. “That’s the story. The godswood is through there. It’s locked, but you can see through the gate.”

Jaime went to look. Casterly Rock’s godswood had been replaced with a garden long ago, but he’d taken a tour of the one in King’s Landing, like everybody else. What he could see through the locked iron gate was something else again, a dense dark forest that looked as wild and primal as every imaging of the ancient Wolfswood. “I don’t envy the gardeners.”

Brienne came to stand beside him. “There aren’t any. It’s never touched. They say it hasn’t been touched for thousands and thousands of years. There’s a weirwood in the centre, too, a real one.”

“And do the Starks still sacrifice their enemies to the old gods beneath it?” Jaime grinned at her. “Because if so, I’d better watch my back.”

“Those are just stories,” Brienne said defensively, and his smile widened. “There’s never been any evidence of ritual sacrifice, it was made up by the septons of the Seven to make the followers of the old gods look bad.”

“You know, I’ve always wondered about the old gods.” Jaime peered through the gate again, trying to see the weirwood, but the undergrowth was too thick. “The free folk have their Long Night stories, too, but in them, they call the dead _the cold gods_. Old gods, cold gods, what if they were the same?”

Brienne frowned. “But the free folk kept the old ways, too. I mean, most still do, more or less. So wouldn’t they know?”

Jaime shrugged. “The same old stories that talk of sacrificing to the weirwoods also talk about giving babies to the dead when winter comes. Probably just a way of talking about children dying of cold and hunger, but … maybe not.” He turned. “Anyway. What _isn’t_ locked?”

“The Great Hall, which is going to be used for … well, for the Great Hall. And the Great Keep, they’re using rooms in it for bedrooms and so forth.”

“Lead on,” Jaime said.

They had to pass through several small courtyards and as many doors. Each was overlooked by either watchtowers on the high walls, or a keep, or both. _Whoever built Winterfell planned to make it as hard as possible for any attacker to winkle them out of it._ Jaime doubted it was really Bran the Builder who’d raised the castle, but looking up at the massive Great Keep it was easy to see how people had believed some sort of magic had been involved in the construction. _It must have taken generations_.

A wave of warmth met him when he stepped inside, and he unzipped his coat, and then took it off. Beside him, Brienne was doing the same. “They must be spending a fortune on heating,” he said.

Brienne shook her head. “It’s hot springs,” she explained. “Beneath the castle. There are pipes through the walls in all the main buildings, they’re all this warm.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows, studying the thick stone walls. “And how much did that set Ned Stark back, I wonder?”

“It wasn’t Mr Stark who did it,” Brienne said. “No-one knows who did, it was done so long ago. Probably when the castle was built.”

The wall was warm beneath his fingers when Jaime touched it. “And what other family secrets did the lovely Catelyn share with you?”

Brienne flushed a bit. “It’s not a secret. It’s in the guidebooks.”

He turned and grinned at her. “Don’t tell me you read the guidebooks.”

“Of course I did.” She looked flabbergasted that Jaime hadn’t. 

“Well, then, tell me more.”

She cleared her throat, looking a bit self-conscious. “The castle’s construction can’t be precisely dated, but the rounded keeps are typical of the early Andal period. The Great Keep was the primary residence of the family and many other residents. It provides direct access to armoury, or it did, as well as to the inner courtyard that holds the Great Hall. It –” She stopped as Jaime closed his eyes and pretended to snore. “You asked!”

He opened his eyes. “Tell me the _stories_,” he said. “Bloody sieges, fierce sacks, defenders on the wall with boiling oil … treachery, tragedy, triumph, all of it. There must be _something_ interesting about a place as old as this.”

“Well, it, um, was sacked and burned twice. Not this castle, the one that was here before the Andal period. During the wars between the Winter Kings and the Red Kings.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Red Kings? I presume the Winter Kings were ‘winter is coming’ Starks, but who were the Red Kings?”

“The Boltons. They were a northern house at the time. Their seat was the Dreadfort. They were called the Red Kings because, well, they used to flay their enemies.”

“Roose Bolton still does, except without knives,” Jaime said, a little grimly. Brienne fell silent, eyeing him, and Jaime forced himself to smile. “So. Which sets am I on?”

“You have one scene in the armoury, two in the Great Hall, and one in the corridor,” Brienne said, because of course the dutiful, tedious woman had made sure to memorise the information. 

“Please tell me I don’t have to fight in a corridor.” Fights in narrow spaces were the absolute worst, not least because it was impossible to shoot from more than one angle at a time without the cameras seeing each other.

“No, your fights are on the walls, and in the armoury.”

“Then show me the armoury.”

It was upstairs, a long, low room already filled with racks of swords and piles of armour. Jaime poked at a shield on the wall, marked with a tree and a falling star. “Is this where Robb Stark kills me?” Brienne nodded. “How many people in the scene?”

“Just you and him.”

Jaime ran his hand over the hilts of the swords. Some looked to be actually real. “Should be enough room then. I presume I ambush him in here, hoping to get him off guard?” _Suitably dishonourable for the Kingslayer, after all._

“Yes. Don’t touch that.”

His hand was on the pommel of a sword – a greatsword, of all things. Deliberately, Jaime flexed his fingers and took hold of the hilt. “This? Why not?”

“It’s an antique. Don’t – it’s too heavy, you’ll drop it.”

“I’ll use both hands.” Suiting the action to the words, he carefully drew the sword from the rack. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, with barely any ornamentation but a lovely smoky grey ripple in the long blade. _Sharp, too._ Jaime turned it a little, admiring the balance. “Where did props get this?”

“Put it back,” Brienne said sharply. “Please.”

“Oh, if you say _please_.” Carefully, Jaime returned the sword to its place. “Where _did_ they get it, though, do you know?”

“It’s not from the prop department,” Brienne said. “Catelyn Stark lent it to the production.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows and whistled. “You mean that’s _Ice_? The actual Stark sword?”

“Yes, and it’s very, very old, so please resist the urge to play with it.”

“As the archmaester said to the mummer’s daughter.” Jaime winked at her, and Brienne blushed. “You know there’s a story that the original Ice was melted down.”

“It was,” Brienne said shortly. “Two smaller swords were made from it. One of them was called _Oathkeeper_, that’s where the name of the film comes from. But later, the Starks got both swords back, and Ice was reforged. Or that’s what some people think.”

Jaime leaned against the wall. “Go on. I take it that Robb Stark wields Oathkeeper in this film?”

Brienne shook her head. “No. He – have you really not read the script?”

He grinned at her. “No. Do I shock you?”

She frowned. “Then how did you decide to do it?”

“The Queen of Thorns offered to pay me quite a handsome number of dragons.” Jaime shrugged. “Good or bad, I’ll be dead by the end of the second act, I always am. So go on, tell me the story.”

“Well, it’s the Long Night. The whole of the north apart from Winterfell has been overrun by the dead. The Young Wolf rallies everyone who’s left to make a stand here. Your character, Lion, has a grudge against him, because you think he killed your sister.”

Jaime nodded. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children. Say her name!” He smirked. “And then he kills me and with my dying breath I admit I was wrong. So, Oathkeeper?”

“There’s another character called Goldenhand, he has Oathkeeper. He’s been the Young Wolf’s enemy for years, but he comes to fight against the dead. Everyone thinks he’s going to betray them, but he doesn’t.”

“No, that’s me,” Jaime said. _That’s always me. _“Who’s been cast?”

“Arys Oakheart. That’s why the film is shooting so late in the year, they’re still filming the last episodes of next year’s _Sunspear Vice_.” Brienne blushed a little, and cleared her throat. _Aha, someone has a celebrity crush_. “Anyway, the castle is overrun, and everyone makes a last stand in the godswood – they’re not filming in the actual godswood, they’re building one –”

“Why in the godswood? Why not in, I don’t know, something defensible?”

“There’s a dragon. A dead dragon. It burns all the buildings before Goldenhand and the Young Wolf kill it. So in the end, Goldenhand is defending the Young Wolf against a whole lot of Walkers, but he’s disarmed and falls back against the weirwood. A Walker picks up Oathkeeper and runs him through, but his blood on the weirwood wakes the old gods, and they end the Long Night.”

“It should be the Young Wolf who kills him.”

“They’re sort of friends by the end, though.”

“Yes, that’s why it should be him. You know, making the hard sacrifice to end the Long Night. Instead of it being a sort of own goal by Team Dead.” Jaime shrugged. “But then, Robb Stark probably doesn’t have the range to pull it off.” _Poor dead Ned could have, though. _As much as Jaime had loathed the man, resented his cold, judgemental attitude, honesty had always forced him to admit that the man could _act_. Ned Stark had won his first Iron Throne Award at just nineteen, and that was in a year when he was up against Arthur Dayne.

“I’m sure Robb could,” Brienne said with her stupid, stubborn, blind loyalty to the Starks. “Catelyn says he has real talent.”

Jaime laughed. “And mothers are so famously unbiased.” He pushed himself away from the wall. “So, come on. Show me the rest of the set.”

“The council room is through here, I mean, what’s being used for the council room.”

Jaime followed her through the door. “Do I have any scenes in here?”

“Not at the moment.”

_Gods be good it will stay that way. _Jaime prowled around it. _Cramped_. Oh, as a room, it was spacious, but once the cameras and microphones and lights and the technicians that went with them were in here, it would be a tight fit. He studied the big table in the middle of the room, some sort of map with carved counters all over it. “What’s this?”

“The battle plan,” Brienne said, coming over to stand beside him. Jaime reached for a piece and she smacked his hand. “Don’t touch! It took them a day to dress it.”

“Sorry, nanny, I didn’t realise it was already set.” He pointed at the piece he’d been going to pick up. “I mean, that looks like a trebuchet, and it’s in the wrong place.”

“It’s where they want it.”

“It’s in front of the bloody infantry!” Jaime said, exasperated. “Not to mention the fortifications!” 

Brienne bit her lip. “I’m sure there’s a good reason.”

Jaime snorted. “Unless that reason is _everybody is an idiot_, it’s not a good one.”

“I thought you didn’t care whether or not the film was any good?”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Brienne looked sceptical, and Jaime scowled at her. “I _don’t_. It’s Olenna’s film, she can make it as stupid as she wants.” He frowned down at the table, and resisted the urge to place the catapults behind the fortifications and move the infantry to the castle walls, where they belonged.

Brienne was silent a moment. “Do you want to see the Great Hall?” she asked at last. “It’s quite impressive.”

Jaime sighed. “Full of carved wolves and whatnot to haunt my sleep. Alright. Lead on.”


	8. Brienne III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsals continue.

Brienne was so busy from then on that rest of the week passed in a blur. She spent hours a day rehearsing Jaime Lannister’s two big fight scenes with him, Sandor, and after a few days, Thoros Myr. Sword-fighting was an odd habit for a priest to have, but Thoros was fairly good, and to Brienne’s relief he kept the topic of the Red God out of the rehearsal space. If he wanted to stare into fire in his own time, it was none of her business, but Brienne had little interest in theological debate. Lannister was an incredibly quick study, and they would have been done in a couple of days, but he was also incapable of keeping himself from offering suggestions for changes. _What about_ _this_ … he’d say, looking innocent, and Sandor would glare and mutter and they’d all have new steps to learn.

Brienne had her other responsibilities as Lannister’s assistant to take care of as well. She delivered his most recent call-sheet every morning, kept his copy of the script up-to-date, made sure he had clean clothes, that his meals were delivered and that he actually ate them.

She wouldn’t have been able to find enough hours in the day to do all of it, but to her pleased surprise Hyle Hunt, the head grip, and Rod Connington, the gaffer, noticed how busy she was and offered to help her out. Their friendliness was a welcome contrast to Jaime Lannister’s … well, rudeness wasn’t exactly the right word. _But the man is certainly mercurial_. Sometimes he was affable, as if he thought they were friends, and then an hour later he’d be distant, even sullen. He was quick to take offense, but seemed astounded that Brienne might resent any of his jibes about her height and strength. For all his wild reputation for hard living, he rose early, worked tirelessly, and did nothing more outrageous in the evenings than watch television.

Wandering around the lot on the fifth night after she’d picked Jaime Lannister up from the Moat Cailin airport – Ygritte’s boyfriend was visiting her so Brienne was making herself tactfully scarce – Brienne reflected that if she hadn’t known he was a Westeros-wide celebrity and favourite of the worst kind of tabloid, she wouldn’t have guessed. _I wouldn’t have guessed he was a murderer, either_. Even when he showed flashes of temper, Brienne never got a sense that he might be _dangerous_, and she was trained to know when someone might be a threat.

She stamped her feet as she walked, trying to keep warm. _He might not be dangerous, but he is irritatingly frivolous. How anyone can work that hard without taking the work the least bit seriously is beyond me. _Another turn around the lot brought her to the trailer she shared with Ygritte. It was rocking slightly, so Brienne sighed and walked on.

There was still light showing at the edge of the blind in Jaime Lannister’s trailer, and for a moment Brienne considered knocking on the door. The idea of warmth was appealing, even if the idea of Jaime Lannister was not.

She was still hesitating when a movement in the shadows between the trailers caught her eye.

Her pulse picked up and suddenly she was no longer cold. As quietly as she could, she edged closer. A figure all in black was standing on some sort of box, or perhaps suitcase. They were peering through the window of Jaime’s trailer.

Then they moved slightly, and Brienne saw moonlight glint on something in their hand.

She charged.

Three long strides, her winter boots finding footing even in the show, and she tacked the intruder away from the window. They sprawled together, Brienne on top. Frantically, she grabbed for the wrists of the man squirming beneath her, got hold and banged his hand against the trailer beside them. Whatever he held spun away into the snow.

“Hold still!” Brienne straddled him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She heard a door open, and then Jaime’s voice. “What the actual fuck?”

“Call security,” Brienne said. Beneath her, the intruder tried again to be free and she pushed his face into the snow. “Go inside, Mr Lannister, lock the door, and call security.”

Mercifully, Jaime wasn’t in one of his contrary moods. Brienne heard the door close again, and a moment later running footsteps approached.

“Brienne?” Grenn said. “What happened?”

The fight had gone out of the intruder, so Brienne wrestled him to his feet and pushed him up against the trailer. “I caught him looking through Mr Lannister’s window. He had some sort of weapon. It went in the snow, over there by the left corner.”

The trailer door opened again, and Jaime – _Lannister_, Brienne reminded herself, _be professional_ – emerged. He’d taken the time to put on his winter gear. “I very much doubt it was a weapon.” He dug around in the drift against the corner of the trailer and came up with a small video camera. “Hello, Meryn. Still freelance or has Baelish finally put you on staff?”

The man gave Lannister a sickly grin. “Hello, Jaime.”

“Mr Lannister,” Jaime said coldly. He studied the camera, pressed a few buttons, and then put it in his pocket. “I’ve always felt that I was particularly co-operative with your efforts to make a dishonest living, Meryn, so it’s extremely hurtful to find you stooping to this level. I think I’d better hold on to your camera for the moment, to remove what’s clearly a source of temptation to sin.”

Meryn looked stricken. “But I – I can’t work without my camera.”

Lannister’s smile was sharp as a knife. “Imagine my dismay. Of course, I could always return your camera and press charges …”

“No, I … that’s fine, Mr Lannister, you keep it as long as you like.”

“Good man.” Lannister turned to Grenn. “Better have him show you how he got in before you throw him out.”

Grenn nodded and led Meryn away.

“So you patrol the lot, as well as everything else?” Jaime, _Lannister_, said to Brienne.

“No, I was just … out for a walk.”

One perfect eyebrow went up. “At night. In October. In sub-zero weather.”

“My roommate has company,” Brienne explained.

Jaime’s lips quirked. “Then you’d better come in before you freeze.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Brienne said quickly.

“I’m just learning lines. You can give me my cues. Come on.” He opened the door, and gestured for her to precede him with antique courtesy.

Brienne didn’t really want to spend any more time with Jaime Lannister than her job required, but nor did she want to go back to her trailer until the coast was clear. _Walking in on Ygritte and Jon once was once too many. And Jaime, Mr Lannister, is certainly right about the cold. _

She followed him inside.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Lannister said, shedding his coat. “I haven’t got much to offer in the way of hospitality, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine.” Brienne took off her own coat. She balanced on one foot and then the other to take off her boots, hesitated, and then stripped off her insulated trousers. Beneath them, she was entirely decently clothed, of course, but still, it felt uneasily like undressing. She busied herself folding her outdoors-wear, carefully not looking at Jaime as he went through the same process. “So, uh, you have people spying on you a lot?”

“They generally don’t go so far as to look through windows.” He tossed his coat and pants down the short corridor towards the bedroom. “Although they might try if I didn’t live on the twenty-first floor in a building with a doorman. I’m sure Meryn Trant hoped to get a nice juicy image of me putting something inappropriate up my nose or up my arse, rather than peacefully reading a script. The paps have their own beat, you know, and I’m one of his. He must be feeling the pinch with me locked away in the frozen north. I mean, it’s been at least two weeks since I’ve been thrown out of a nightclub.”

“Why did they throw you out?”

Lannister dropped gracefully onto the couch, gathering up the loose pages scattered across it. “Sit down. I got in a fight.”

Brienne perched on the edge of the couch, as far away from him as she could manage. “Do you do that often, get into fights?”

Lannister grinned at her. “I should ask _you_ that, you’re the one I just found grinding Meryn’s face into the ground.”

“I didn’t know who he was,” Brienne said defensively. “I couldn’t see what he had in his hand.”

Lannister raised his eyebrows. “What did you think it was? A gun?” His eyes widened. “You thought it might be, didn’t you. And you fucking tackled him. Are you insane?”

She glared at him. “I wasn’t about to let someone shoot you.”

“Well, aren’t you the hero,” he drawled. 

“I have an obligation,” Brienne said stiffly. “You’re my responsibility. And I know what I’m doing.”

Lannister’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, Clegane mentioned that you worked for Renly Baratheon. Why did you leave?” He gave a small, mirthless smile. “I know it can’t be because he made a pass at you.”

_No. No-one makes a pass at me_. “I just did.” No need to mention … Brienne cut the thought off, but not before her stomach twisted, the memory of humiliation making her feel sick and sweaty. Loras Tyrell’s voice. _He thinks she’s absurd. Grotesque. More a man than a woman, and not enough of either. _

“Brienne?” Jaime asked, the mockery vanishing from his voice. “_Did_ he make a pass at you? Or worse?”

She blinked hard. “No, of course not.” Her voice was mercifully steady. “Renly would never do something like that, even if he was straight. Or bi. I just wanted a change.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway. Do you get thrown out of places for fighting often?”

“Hardly ever,” Lannister said. He lounged back again and grinned at her. “Usually I have to tip the bouncers to toss me out and give the tabloids something to salivate over. But that time … have you heard of Victarion Greyjoy?”

“He’s that sailor?” Brienne hazarded. “Circumnavigates things?”

Lannister threw back his head and laughed. “Circumnavigates things. Gods be good, I’ll see you say that to his face one day. Well, he was there, and he and I got into an argument over the way he was treating the woman he was with. He took offense when I expressed my strong opinion about the size of his manhood. Luckily for me, he was too drunk to be able to work out which one of the three of me he could see to hit. We both got thrown out.” 

“Did you know her? The woman he was with?”

Lannister frowned at her. “He decided she was smiling too much, and that twisting her arm was a suitable corrective. Do I need to have known her? Would you need to have?”

“No,” Brienne said. “I’m sorry. I just … I suppose, with all the stories, _knight errant_ isn’t a role I’d expect you to play.”

“I’m crushed!” Jaime declared dramatically. “I mean, you’ve seen me fight with sword, if not with shield. I’ve even been chivalrous enough to let you win –”

“_Let_ me!”

“We could settle it,” he suggested. “With those tourney swords I’m increasingly certain Clegane is hiding from me.”

“If you get hurt, insurance will cover you, and the production,” Brienne said. “Sandor and I will lose our jobs.”

“Coward.”

“I don’t care what you call me, I won’t fight you – until filming is over.”

Jaime grinned. “That’s my wench! I’ll hold you to it. You owe me one good fight.”

“Wench?” Brienne stared at him. “Excuse me, _wench_?”

He seemed unphased by her glare. “Swords-wench?”

“Brienne. My name is _Brienne_.”

“Careful, or you’ll be swords-_nanny_.”

She snorted. “You are –”

“Charming,” he suggested.

“An enormous pain in the arse.”

“Ah,” he said softly, still smiling. “Truth at last from Brienne Tarth.”

Brienne looked away. “No. I didn’t mean that. Just … sometimes difficult.”

“And sometimes delightful?”

“And occasionally annoying.”

“Or adorable.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Are you never serious?”

“I try not to be,” Lannister said, quite seriously. “Don’t you think life is serious enough already?”

“All the more reason not to treat it lightly,” Brienne pointed out. “You said you were learning lines. Do you want me to leave you in peace, or give you your cues.”

“Cues.” He rifled through the pages in his lap and thrust several sheets into her hands. “It’s the scene between Lion and Rose. Do you know who they’ve cast for Rose?”

“Margaery Tyrell.”

“Oh, good.”

“She’s very pretty,” Brienne said neutrally.

“She’s very professional,” Lannister said. “Alright, from the top.”

Brienne scanned the pages and found the place. “Why are you here?” she read aloud.

Lannister slid down a little, hands linked behind his head. “Why are any of us here? This is the great war.”

“And yet not your war.”

“All wars are my wars,” Lannister said, eyes on the ceiling. “Everywhere children are in danger, it’s my war.”

“To protect them?”

“Or avenge them.” His voice was soft, but there was something hard and merciless around his mouth. “What is power for, but to protect or avenge those we love?” The silence stretched, and then he glanced at Brienne. “Prompt, wench!”

Blushing, Brienne tore her gaze from his face and scrambled to find her place.


	9. Jaime VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime finally gets a day off.

Jaime opened his eyes enough to squint at his phone. _Six in the fucking morning, on my day off_. He rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head. _Mother have mercy. _He kept his eyes shut and willed himself back to sleep, but he was well aware it was a losing battle.

After five minutes he rolled over, picked up his phone, and found the contact he wanted. At the other end of the line, the phone rang, rang again, and then a familiar voice said, “This had better be a fucking emergency, Jaime.”

Jaime grinned. “Can’t I talk to my little brother without it being a crisis?”

“Not at – oh, fuck you, dear brother. It’s not even morning yet. Not by any civilised standard. Have you no decency? Have you at long last, no decency?”

“You know I don’t.”

“I know you don’t,” Tyrion agreed. “No decency. No shame.” Fabric rustled. “Is it an emergency, or are you just spreading your own misery?”

“The latter,” Jaime said. “I have one day off this week, and I’m already awake.”

“Drink,” Tyrion suggested. “A lot.”

“My minder would disapprove.”

“He sounds very boring.”

“_She_,” Jaime said. “An absolute giant of a woman with a face that would curdle milk. And she’s certainly very determined to keep me out of trouble. How are things in King’s Landing?”

“Generally, or specifically?”

Jaime paused. “Generally,” he said at last. _Don’t tell me about Cersei. Don’t tell me about Joffrey. Don’t tell me about Myrcella, or Tommen._

“Renly has the Riverlands on board. With the Reach, he has the numbers on the Great Council. Get used to saying Prime Minister Renly Baratheon.”

Jaime snorted. “That’ll last.”

“Oh, it will,” Tyrion said, water running in the background. “Not because of Renly, but because of Loras. He’s the brains of that operation.” He paused. “Well, he listens to his family, who are the brains of that operation.”

“Loras is fine.” Jaime rolled out of bed. “He’s just young. We were that young, once.”

“You might have been. I never was. So how is the frozen north?”

“Frozen.” Jaime tipped coffee granules into a mug one handed, and added hot water. “Boring.”

“Do you need a care package?”

“Not from you! Not after the last one.” All the luxuries King’s Landing could provide, personally delivered by five beautiful young women who had not been shy in letting Jaime know that they were included Tyrion’s gift.

“That was years ago.” Tyrion was making coffee, too: Jaime could hear the espresso machine bubbling. He sipped warm instant coffee and tried not to be resentful. “I’m a changed man.”

“I’m sure. That’s why you had your last birthday party in a strip club.”

“A strip club my girlfriend manages, thank you,” Tyrion said. “I’m supporting her entrepreneurial initiative.”

“Is that for her benefit, your benefit, or to drive father insane with rage?”

Tyrion chuckled. “All three, it’s a win-win-win. He has to have an apoplexy sometime.”

“If anger could kill Tywin Lannister it would have done so long ago.”

“If Olenna Tyrell takes Best Picture at the Iron Thrones next year for _Oathkeeper_, he’ll either have a stroke or drown in his own bile.” Tyrion crunched toast and spoke with his mouth full. “And if _you_ get Best Supporting, he’ll do both simultaneously.”

Jaime sighed. “Sweet as that would be, I don’t think it’s likely. The Queen of Thorns only wants the Kingslayer, and in this one I don’t even get to be witty.”

“As I keep telling you, you need a new agent. Walder Frey –”

“He’s kept me in work,” Jaime protested.

“_Bad_ work,” Tyrion said. “And I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust anyone.”

“Occupational hazard, but I mean _specifically_. _Three_ of his sons work for Roose Bolton now, and you know ninety-percent of Roose’s business is doing father’s dirty work. I have a small but growing suspicion that he’s not the only one.”

“Mmm.” Jaime thought back to the young guard’s words about the Brave Companions. “Have you heard anything about Bolton or father working with motorcycle gangs?”

“Nothing would surprise me, about father, Bolton, or Walder Frey. Let me make some calls, look over your contract with Frey and how to get you out of it.” He paused. “I can hear you thinking, dear brother, even over the phone. Don’t, you’ll strain something.”

Jaime sighed. “Fuck. You know that whoever you set me up with, they’re going to ask –”

“I’ll make sure they don’t,” Tyrion said firmly. “Give me _some_ credit, Jaime.”

“Fine,” Jaime said at last. He drained his mug. “Set the meetings. I’ll be up here for at least another month, but after that …”

“I’ll email you the details. Bye!”

Jaime was left listening to a dial tone with a wry smile. _Too smart to give me a chance to change my mind._

He showered quickly, yanked on his clothes and then went through the tedious process of getting into the bulky gear that the gods-forsaken Winterfell climate necessitated for even the short walk to catering.

Decent coffee and an excellent breakfast dispelled Jaime’s lingering bad mood at the prospect of the embarrassment of trying to explain to a new agent that he did, actually, think he had more range as an actor than sneering and stabbing. _And if Tyrion’s right about Frey_ …

A group of men from the crew came in together, joking with each other about some bet they had going. They fell silent as Brienne followed them through the door. Two of them jumped up, offering her the seat next to them, glaring daggers at each other all the while. _Looks like Clegane has some competition. _

“Brienne!” Jaime called, beckoning to her. The two men who’d been trying to get Brienne to sit with them transferred their glares to him. Jaime returned a sunny smile. _I’m doing you a favour, morons. You don’t want to give Sandor Clegane a reason to be pissed off with you._

Brienne nodded, collected a plate and mug, and came to sit opposite Jaime. “Your call sheet said this was your day off.”

“It is. I’ve just gotten too used to getting up early. Isn’t it your day off, as well?”

She nodded. “I wanted to get an early start.”

“For what?”

“Castle Cerwyn.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows. “One frozen castle isn’t enough for you?”

Brienne coloured a little, and shrugged. “I’ve never been this far north, and likely won’t be again. It seems a waste not to see as much of it as I can.”

“What’s next?” Jaime grinned at her. “Hunting in the Wolfswood? Searching for ghosts at the Dreadfort? Investigating unicorns on Skagos?”

“I don’t think I could get there and back in a day.” Brienne sounded wistful, and Jaime realised she’d actually contemplated it. _Seven hells, she’s just like Tyrion_. His brother had once used an entire week of what little annual holiday he allowed himself to drive the whole length of the Kingsroad from Storm’s End to the fabled location of Castle Black. _So I can piss off Durran’s Point at the start of my trip and off the Ice Wall at the end of it_, had been Tyrion’s explanation, but Jaime knew his little brother well enough to know the insatiable hunger to know, to see, to _experience _that motivated him, not that he’d admit it. _And not that Brienne Tarth would admit that she really would seriously look for unicorns on Skagos. _

“Maybe you’ll have time when production wraps,” he suggested, and was rewarded with a small smile. It revealed big teeth that had clearly never known an orthodontist’s attention, but the smile made Brienne’s blue eyes even prettier. “Would you mind company, today?”

The smile was replaced by a look of suspicion. “To visit another frozen castle?”

Jaime shrugged. “It’s got to be better than sitting in my trailer editing my Citidelpedia page.”

“You can’t do that!” Brienne sounded so shocked Jaime had to laugh. “That’s supposed to be an objective, reliable source of information!”

“Objective, reliable information on the weirnet?” He chuckled. “Sweet summer child. The Wall will melt before that happens. But since you’re so invested in the idea …” He spread his hands. “You’d better safeguard Citidelpedia’s integrity by whisking me away to Castle Cerwyn.”

Twenty minutes later, snugly ensconced in the passenger seat of Brienne’s Range Rover and switching the radio over to Iron Islands shanties every time Brienne switched it back, Jaime was surprised to realise that he was actually looking forward to spending the morning clambering around a crumbling ruin.

“Oh, we pay the iron price, boys, we never pay in gold,” he sang.

Brienne switched the radio off completely.

Jaime grinned at her and raised his voice. “We pay the iron price, girls, we never pay in gold. We go reaving and roving from Arbor to Bear Island, the wealth of the Kingdoms snug down in our hold. Heave away, haul away, row, boys row!”

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Stop it.”

Jaime ignored her. “The Reach does pay with food, boys, and others pay with gold. But the only thing we pay with is iron sharp and bold. We go reaving and roving from Arbor to Bear Island, the wealth of the Kingdoms snug down in our hold. Heave away, haul away, row, boys row!”

Brienne gave him a sideways glare. “If you absolutely must sing, could you find something that isn’t about women being raped and children being orphaned?”

“It’s just a song!”

“What do you think _reaving_ involved?” Brienne demanded.

Jaime raised his eyebrows. “We all romanticise the past. I mean, you and I play knights in tourneys, do you ever stop to think about what the men we mimic were like, I mean, _really_ like?”

“Honourable,” Brienne said. “Sworn to protect the innocent, to protect women, to serve justice.”

Jaime laughed. “Oh, _sworn_. Yes, they said some words and had some oil smeared on them. I’m sure that changed their nature. You should read some of the stories.”

“I’ve read the stories. Just because a few –” Jaime laughed again, and Brienne shot him another scowl. “You shouldn’t judge them by your own standards.”

_Aerys_, she meant, because it always came back to fucking Aerys and his father and Pycelle. Jaime turned and stared out the window.

After several miles of silence, Brienne said, “If you want to sing, I don’t mind. Just, not something horrible.”

“I don’t want to sing,” Jaime said, and heard the sulky note in his own voice. He raked his fingers through his hair. “If you want to put the radio back on, I won’t change it.”

“I’ve got some CDs in the glovebox. You might find something we both like,” Brienne suggested.

Jaime leaned forward and rummaged through her collection. He was unsurprised to find a fair number of albums belonging to the genre he personally categorized as _romantic crap_: ballads of Florian and Jonquil, Theon and Jeyne, Rheaghar and Lyanna, all the famous star-crossed lovers turned into sanitised stories without blood, betrayal, or sex. He tossed them back and considered the rest. Gerold Dayne’s latest got pitched back as well. _In fifteen years he’ll be worth listening too, but at the moment, he’s all attitude and emotionalism. _Jaime snorted. _I mean, who calls an album ‘Darkstar: Of The Night’ with a straight face? _

The next, however, was promising. Barbrey Dustin’s handsome face stared out from the cover, the grey in her hair undyed, her wrinkles undisguised. _The North Remembers_, the album was called, and Jaime opened the case and slipped the CD into the player. He pressed _play_ and Barbrey’s slightly hoarse, melancholy voice slipped from the speakers and filled the car. _Mother, I bring you roses_, she sang, _Stranger, I bring you steel. Mother said praying to the Father would protect us – Father said praying to the Mother would keep us safe. It turns out the Stranger is the only God who watches, and answers prayers._

_Mother, I bring you briars. Father, I bring you grief. _

Jaime flipped the case over and read the notes on the back aloud. “_The North Remembers_, a collection of traditional songs associated with the Great Northern Conspiracy. I don’t remember reading that the north followed the Seven back then.” He read further. “Oh, this one is from White Harbour, that explains it. No _Rat Cook_, which is a pity. I suppose cannibalism scares the studio.” He put the case back in the glovebox. “Do you believe in the Great Northern Conspiracy?”

Brienne shrugged a little, eyes steady on the road. “It’s impossible to tell, after all this time. I mean, there are things that don’t seem to be coincidence. But were they coordinated?”

_Mother, I bring you roses_, Barbrey sang. _Father, I bring you tears. Warrior, I call upon you. Give me strength for all the years._

Jaime shifted a little in his seat so he could look at Brienne. “According to Ebrose, definitely.”

She snorted. “Ebrose. He should have stuck to medical history.”

That was pretty much Jaime’s opinion, too, and he smiled. “His book on greyscale was a good read.”

“It was,” Brienne agreed. She turned the wheel, and Jaime realised they had reached their destination. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Have you no decency? Have you at long last, no decency?” is not mine, but it’s not GRRM’s either. It’s a paraphrase of a famous quote by Joseph N. Welch


	10. Jaime VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castle Cerwyn, tourney swords ... and the Brave Companions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, things take a canonically compliant darker turn ahead.   
Those of you who have read ASOIAF will recognise that the fight scene in this chapter is almost entirely GRRM’s, and not mine. I’ve cut and adapted it, but can claim no credit. I’ve marked that passage with ~~~ to make it clear.

Castle Cerwyn was not the tumble-down ruin Jaime had expected. It was significantly smaller than Winterfell, but it had been well-maintained and was now thoroughly fitted-out as a tourist attraction. What tourists there might be in the frozen north, Jaime could only begin to guess.

Still, whoever owned the castle now – Jaime checked the guidebook and was surprised to see it was still the Cerwyn family – had a good eye for what was appealing about historic homes. The entire place was furnished with replicas, rather than antiques, which meant there were no velvet ropes preventing visitors from plonking themselves on the carved chairs or testing the straw mattresses. Jaime and Brienne spent an entertaining half-an-hour in the Great Hall watching a school-group being walked through the processes of a Lord’s justice, which was far more interesting than any of the interminable moot-courts Jaime had attended when Tyrion was still in school.

“Do you think they’ll actually swing the sword, when they’ve passed the judgement?” Jaime asked, and Brienne nudged him sharply in the ribs.

There were even waiters and waitresses in costume serving food in the kitchens, although the passion for authenticity didn’t extend to food cooked on spits or wood-fired stoves. Jaime grinned the first time one of them addressed him as _m’lud,_ ignored Brienne’s glare, and ordered pigeon pie. The waitress blinked at him, caught his wink, and bobbed a curtsey.

It was chicken pie, of course, when it came. Jaime’s imperious demand for stuffed aurochs turned into a plate of roast beef with vegetables, and his insistence on a spun-sugar dessert produced nothing more exotic or authentic than cheesecake, but he pretended, and the waitress pretended, and they both had a wonderful time.

“What?” he said to Brienne as she stared at him. “It’s all make-believe, isn’t it? This, the Fire and Ice Fair, the movies we make.” He scooped up the last piece of cheesecake and offered it to her. “You don’t take a shotgun to your bouts, do you? It’s all pretend.”

Brienne ignored his fork. “It’s not _pretend._ It’s … it’s about living up to something, not about make-believe. About a time when people put honour ahead of profit.”

Jaime laughed, and ate the last of the cake himself. “Ah, the good old days. When men were men, women were property, and anyone without a surname was expendable. What do you think would have become of you, Brienne Tarth, in those days when people were putting honour ahead of profit? You would have been wed and bed by fifteen, bred until you died in childbirth.”

Brienne drew herself up. “I would not. I would have been a knight.”

It was a comical proposition, and yet, as Brienne sat very upright, blue eyes blazing, Jaime couldn’t laugh. “You, perhaps. Yes. I’d believe it. If the Blue Knight could do it, you could.”

She blushed and looked down. “She’s just a story.”

Jaime put his hand over hers, although he couldn’t have said why. “They’re all just stories, Brienne. The Long Night. Castle Black. The Great Northern Conspiracy. The Blue Knight. Seven Hells, I’ve made a career out of what’s _just stories_.” He leaned back, and gestured around the room. “All of this is because people long for what you call _just stories_.”

Brienne blinked at him, brilliant blue eyes puzzled. “One minute you’re saying it’s only pretend, and the next –”

“Not _only_,” Jaime said. “I never said _only_. The stories are _better_ than the truth, Brienne, because the stories are what we wish we were and the truth is what we fear we could become. We pretend, we make-believe, we play a part not because it’s true but because we wish it could be.”

“Is that what you want?” Brienne asked slowly. “To be … the part you play?”

“Oh, I am the cautionary tale,” Jaime said lightly. He took out his Maestercard and held it up to attract the waitress’s attention. “I never wanted to be the part I play, but it seems I’m fated to it.” Brienne fumbled in her pocket, came up with a handful of Dragons and Stags, and Jaime shook his head. “You paid for petrol, I’ll pay for lunch.”

He knew Brienne well enough now to know that she would never have let him _buy_ her lunch, but framing it as a fair exchange had her shoving her money away again.

There wasn’t much more of the castle to see. They climbed up the winding steps of one of the watch-towers and Jaime tried and failed to induce Brienne to mock duel him on the narrow stairs. From the top of the tower, they watched the White Knife crashing down the steep fall beneath the castle, spray flying up to freeze solid on leafless trees and rocks and evergreen shrubs. They toured the dungeons, which took all of four minutes since the Cerwyn family had apparently never needed more than two cells.

“We’ve seen it all,” Brienne said at last, sounding regretful.

“Not quite,” Jaime said. “There’s still the gift shop.”

“It’ll be just mugs and mouse mats,” Brienne objected.

“Of course.” He grinned at her. “But if this place is as well designed as it seems, we’ll need to go through the gift shop to get to the parking lot, anyway. May as well pick up a few presents for the family while we’re being herded through.” 

Brienne snorted. “My father doesn’t need a tea-towel.”

She followed him, though, as he led the way into the surprisingly tatt-free store. There were the expected postcards, teaspoons and letter-openers embossed with the Cerwyn crest of a black battle axe. Jaime chose a postcard with a picture of the castle on it for Tyrion and flipped through a selection of history books and historical novels featuring or at least mentioning the Cerwyn family. One was called _Noble Knights and Wicked Wenches_, and Jaime tucked it under his arm with a smile at the thought of Brienne’s expression when he gave it to her.

Looking around, he saw the blonde head of his own wench looming over the shelves at the other end of the shop. When he wandered over, he discovered that the gift-shop was more interesting than he could have imagined: Brienne was intently studying a display of tourney swords.

Jaime picked one up, testing the balance. “Not bad.” Better than not bad, in fact. The blade had the dull lustre of good quality steel and the tang ran the full length of the hilt. It was probably the equal of any Jaime already owned. He put it back and selected another. “Which do you prefer, arming or long?”

Brienne gave him a suspicious look, as if expecting a hidden barb in the innocent question. “Arming,” she said.

“You should learn to use both.” Jaime gave a small, experimental swing with the sword before putting it back and reaching for another.

“I _can_ use both, I just prefer to use a shield.”

“Why, are your parries weak? Ah, look at this beauty.” It was a bastard sword, probably too heavy for a small man or woman to wield it as anything but a longsword. Jaime offered it to Brienne, hilt first. “Go on,” he said, when she hesitated. “You’re probably strong enough.”

Brienne snorted. “I’m strong enough.” She took the sword from him, and Jaime saw her face change as she felt the keen balance of it. _A good sword is a pleasure all of its own_. She handled it well, too, shifting easily between a one and a two-handed grip, feet moving instinctively to find the right balance. “I wouldn’t have expected to find something like this here.”

“That’s our Gendry,” a girl’s voice said, and Jaime turned to see the waitress who’d served them om the castle’s café. “Most of his work is in mail order, or at the fairs and tourneys, but we always get a few in here who want to take a real sword home with them.”

“Gendry?” Jaime asked, trying to place the name. _I thought I knew all the smiths whose work was this good …_

“Gendry Waters,” the girl said.

Jaime’s eyebrows went up, at the same moment as Brienne said, “Waters the Bull?”

The girl nodded. “That’s the one. His smithy is actually around the back. He’s not there today, but if you have a special order, you can come back tomorrow. Although that one looks like it suits you, milady.”

Brienne snorted. “I’m no lady, nor would have been.”

Jaime grinned at her. “No, you’re a wench.” Brienne’s mouth opened, and he cut her off by turning to the girl. “How much for the sword?”

Brienne blanched to hear the price, although it was entirely reasonable for the quality of the work. She very carefully placed the sword back, although Jaime noted it was with a final caress of the hilt and a longing look.

He handed his book and postcard to the young woman. “Can you ring those up for me? And – ” He plucked the sword from the rack, and then the one next to it. “Both these as well.”

Brienne clearly didn’t understand his intention, because she scowled at him resentfully. _You should be blowing me kisses, wench._ Jaime waited while his purchases were wrapped, but Brienne stomped out into the carpark 

When he followed her, he found she was already in the car, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. Jaime rapped on the window, and then opened the door.

Brienne turned to glare at him. “You’re letting the heat out.”

Jaime grinned, tossing the book past her to the passenger seat. “Then get out, and close the door.”

She tried to close the door again, but he put his weight against it, and with an exasperated huff of breath she unfolded herself from the driver’s seat and shut the door behind her. “What?” she demanded.

Jaime tossed one wrapped sword to her and, as she caught it reflexively, stripped the wrapping from the other. It had been a while since he’d fought with a two-handed grip and so he dropped into a conservative plough position.

Brienne held the sword across her hands. “Jaime – Mr Lannister – what are you doing?”

It was reckless, it was irresponsible – it was irresistible. “You owe me a fight. So guard yourself, wench!”

“This is ridiculous. I won’t fight you.” She let the tip of the sword go, holding it by the wrapped hilt. “We’re not armoured. It’s irresponsible for you to risk injury, and it would be irresponsible for me –”

“These coats will stop a blow as well as boiled leather.” Jaime swung at her. Slowly, telegraphing his intent, and with enough careful control to make sure he could stop the blow before it landed, but none of that was needed, because Brienne flung up her own blade faster than he would have thought possible. Steel met steel with a clang and the paper wrapping Brienne’s sword shredded. 

~~~

Jaime laughed. "Very good, wench."

"Give me the sword."

"Oh, I _will_.” He drove at her, the longsword alive in his hands. Brienne jumped back, parrying, but he followed, pressing the attack. The swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. Jaime's blood was singing. This was what he was meant for; he never felt so alive as when he was fighting. _I was born a thousand years too late._

High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon her. Left, right, backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together, upswing, sideslash, overhand, always attacking, moving into her, step and slide, strike and step, step and strike, hacking, slashing, faster, faster, faster . . .

. . . until, breathless, he stepped back and let the point of the sword fall to the ground, giving her a moment of respite. "Not half bad," he acknowledged. "For a wench."

She took a slow deep breath, her eyes watching him warily. "I don’t want to hurt you, Mr Lannister."

"As if you could." He whirled the blade back up above his head and flew at her again.

Jaime could not have said how long he pressed the attack. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept when swords woke. He drove her away from the car, drove her across the road, drove her into the trees. She stumbled once but only went to one knee instead of falling, and never lost a beat, fighting her way back to her feet stroke by stroke.

The dance went on. He pinned her against an oak, cursed as she slipped away, followed her through a shallow brook half-choked with broken ice. Steel rang, steel sang, steel screamed and sparked and scraped, and Brienne started grunting like a sow at every crash, yet somehow he could not reach her. It was as if she had an iron cage around her that stopped every blow.

"Not bad at all," he said when he paused for a second to catch his breath, circling to her right.

"For a wench?"

"For a beginner, say. A green one." He laughed a ragged, breathless laugh. "Come on, come on, my sweetling, the music's still playing. Might I have this dance, my lady?"

Grunting, she came at him, blade whirling, and suddenly it was Jaime struggling to keep steel away from him. His longsword grew heavier with every blow, and Jaime knew he was not swinging it as quickly as he'd done earlier, nor raising it as high.

_She is stronger than I am_.

It was an unwelcome realisation. Robert Baratheon had been stronger than him, to be sure. Greatjon Umber was stronger, Strongboar of Crakehall most likely, Sandor Clegane for a certainty. It did not matter. With speed and skill, Jaime could beat them all. But this was a woman. A huge woman, to be sure, but even so . . . by rights, she should be the one wearing down.

Instead she forced him back into the brook again, shouting, "Yield! Throw down the sword!"

A slick stone turned under Jaime's foot. Brienne splashed into him and kicked away his sword. "_Yield_!"

And the woods rang with coarse laughter.

~~~

Arrayed along the road above them were a dozen men on motorcycles. Jaime recognised the goat with bloody horns on a flag stuck to the back of one chopper. _The Brave Companions. _These were no weekend warriors escaping their office jobs for a few hours on the open road. One was tall and gaunt with a long, greasy beard thinly covering his pointed chin, another had a scar where his nose should have been, a third was grinning with a mouthful of teeth filed to sharp points.

Brienne picked up Jaime’s sword from the ground. With her face red with exertion and her clothing askew she looked more like a woman caught mid-fuck than mid-fight. “Let’s get back to the car,” she said quietly to Jaime.

“Agreed.” He gave the men an amiable smile. “Good day to you, sers.”

The one with the beard spat in the road. “We’re no therth. And neither are you. I recognithe you. You’re Jaime Lannithter.”

Despite the comical lisp, something in the way the biker spoke his name chilled Jaime more effectively than the frigid winter air. “I am. And I’m happy to give you an autograph – I can arrange a signed photo – or a tour of my father’s film studio, if you’d like, he’s – ” 

“I know who your father ith. A rich man. A very rich man.” He jerked his head at two of his companions. “Bring them.”

The noseless man and one even wider than he was tall climbed off their bikes.

“Give me back my sword,” Jaime said quietly.

Brienne didn’t move. “Mr Lannister, they have _guns_.”

And they did, Jaime saw then, pistols shoved in belts. “This is a kidnapping, Brienne. Better to go down fighting.”

“Better to stay alive,” Brienne said. Jaime had no chance to tell her there was no chance of that before she let the fat man take the weapons from her, and handed over the keys to her Range Rover when he demanded them. “Co-operate, and keep your mouth shut.” She gave him a baleful look. “If you can possibly manage to.”


	11. Jaime VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the hands of the Brave Companions. Canon-consistent violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warning for violence

Jaime’s head ached, and he felt like he would vomit if he so much as breathed too deeply. For a while, that was all he could manage to be aware of. Gradually, he realised he was lying on a thin and stinking mattress, that his hands were bound in front of him, and that there was a warm body pressed against his back.

He opened his eyes, wincing as even the dim light sent a stab of pain through his head.

“Mr Lannister?” Brienne whispered, and Jaime realised it was her lying beside him.

“Jaime,” he corrected in a rusty thread of a voice. There were dogs outside, he could hear them. Barking, then howling. The sound went through his temples like a knife.

“You have a concussion,” Brienne said. “Try to lie still.”

“What happened? Where are we?” He remembered fighting her, remembered the Brave Companions – and then nothing.

“You tried to fight them when they put us in the boot. They knocked you out. I told you, we have to co-operate.”

Jaime rolled over onto his back. The movement was almost enough to disturb his precarious control over his stomach, and it was a moment before he could speak. “They’re going to kill us. Both of us. You do know that, don’t you?”

“They need to keep you alive for a ransom. That’s what they want.”

He sighed at her stupidity. _Brienne the bodyguard, my arse._ _I might only be an actor, but I’ve seen enough action movies to know how this is going to go._ “Brienne, we saw their faces. We know who they are. They can’t let us go.”

“I know,” Brienne said, surprising him. She leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “The police will assume it, too. But they’ll have to keep you alive until they get the money, in case your family demands proof you’re alive, and the police won’t let your family pay the money until they have a plan to find you and get you out. You need to stay calm, keep your mouth shut, and start co-operating with them.”

It actually made some sort of sense. Jaime grunted a vague agreement. “How long has it been?”

“A few hours. They’ve probably already made the call.” Brienne lowered her voice to a whisper again. “There’s a chance the Watch already monitors their communications.”

“Wouldn’t they take that into account?”

“I don’t think they’re very smart,” Brienne said.

She sounded so disapproving Jaime couldn’t help smiling despite the pain in his head. Then something she’d said struck him. “Wait. You said they need to keep _me_ alive.”

“I’m not the one with the rich family.” Her voice was very calm. “They’ll probably kill me as soon as it’s dark. You need to be smart and keep yourself alive. Don’t antagonise them. Don’t even draw their attention to you. Keep your head down, do what you’re told, wait for the Watch to do their jobs.”

“You might be able to get one of their guns when they come back,” Jaime suggested. _She must know how to use one_. And the wench was big and strong enough to overpower any one or even any three of the Brave Companions if she had the advantage of surprise. _And she charged Meryn Trant thinking he was a mad assassin_. “I can at least distract them –”

Brienne sighed. “Mr Lannister, you’re not listening to me. I need to know you understand what I’m telling you to do. There are at least ten of them with handguns and you’re not dealing with calm, considered professionals here. If you get them riled up, they might forget about the ransom in the heat of the moment.”

He turned to stare at her. “You’re just going to let them kill you?” Men like this would probably rape her first, too.

“What I’m trying to do is keep them from killing _you_, do you understand?” Her voice was low and urgent. “I’m not important here, it’s –”

“Bugger that with a bloody spear,” Jaime snarled. “What sort of man do you think I am to just resign myself to letting you be killed?”

“A smart one, I’m hoping,” Brienne said drily.

That wasn’t even half the truth, though, Jaime knew. _Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man Without Honour. The sort of man I’ve been playing for my entire adult life. _Of course, Brienne believed it. _Well, fine. It’s her fault, anyway. If she’d given me back my sword, between us we could have thrashed at least a few of them and scared the others off. If she wants to lie down and die, let her._

He rolled back over and stared at the wall opposite.

As it turned out, Brienne had been right: almost as soon as the light had faded completely, the door of the small room they were in opened. The great fat man and another – a skinny little streak of shit wearing what looked like a stained and tattered clown-suit – hauled Brienne to her feet. She did not resist.

“Remember what I told you,” she said quietly to Jaime.

“Walk, bitch,” the clown said.

_Oh, fuck it_. “I hope you know who she is,” Jaime said, putting all the confidence he could fake – and it was quite a lot – into his voice. “Didn’t you take her wallet? Even think to check her driver’s licence to know who you’d captured?”

“What are you doing?” Brienne hissed.

Jaime ignored her. Both men’s attention was now fixed on him. “That’s Brienne Tarth. Like the island? Her family owns it. You know what they call it? The Sapphire Isle.” He grinned at the bikers. “Because most of the sapphires in Westeros are mined there. She’s worth more than I am, you fools. Don’t you think you should let your boss know?”

From their faces, Jaime could see that coming to terms with a new idea was a difficult process for the two bikers. He held his breath, wondering if he should prod them a little more – _no_. They shoved Brienne back down on the mattress, sending her half-sprawling over Jaime, and left again.

“Why did you say that?” Brienne said fiercely, rolling away from him. “My family doesn’t own Tarth, and it’s called the Sapphire Isle for the colour of the sea around it. Now they’ll think my father is worth a fortune, and when they find out –”

“Say it louder, wench, I don’t think they heard you,” Jaime snapped.

“Can you not keep from lying for even an hour?”

Jaime glared at her. “I do apologise for telling a slight untruth to keep you from a shallow grave. What does it matter what your father’s worth? Didn’t you tell me to try to stay alive until the Watch comes to the rescue?”

Brienne blinked at him. Even in the slim glimmer of moonlight struggling through the small, dirty window, her eyes were such a brilliant blue that the Sapphire Isle could almost have earned its name for the eyes of its daughters rather than the hue of its waters. “Oh.”

He gave her a hard smile. “You’ll just have to hope your father is smart enough to play along.”

Brienne nodded. “He’s Chief of the Tarth Watch, he’ll know what to do.” She paused. “Thank you.”

Jaime shrugged, and rolled over again. “It’d be colder in here without you to warm my back.”

Brienne fell silent, but after a moment, Jaime felt her edge closer to him, until she was once again pressed against his back from heels to head. He’d spoken only truth: he was almost comfortable with her body to warm him. _Stupid, stubborn, brave aurochs of a woman. _

“Don’t worry about the ransom,” he whispered after a moment. “I mean, if the money has to be found, it’ll be found, for both of us. My brother will make sure of it.”

“He doesn’t even know me,” Brienne whispered back. 

Jaime grinned into the darkness, thinking of the two of meeting, his very little brother and his absolutely enormous protector. “You don’t know him, if you think that would matter. Don’t worry.”

“I won’t. You don’t worry about anything else. Just –”

“Stay quiet, be co-operative.”

“Yes.”

“I do listen, sometimes, wench.”

“Brienne,” she whispered softly. “Brienne.”

“Brienne,” Jaime said. “Brienne the Brave.”

One day passed, and then another. The first was the worst: the Brave Companions didn’t bother to provide them with food, or water, or so much as a bucket to shit in. Eventually Brienne, with firm instructions to Jaime to sit on the mattress with his hands in plain view and his eyes on the floor, went to the door and knocked. Jaime was reluctantly impressed at how calm and polite she was as she explained to the noseless thug who opened it that the Brave Companions needed to keep their hostages in reasonable condition if they wanted to receive their ransom. Brienne’s argument resulted in gas-station sandwiches, a bottle of water, and them each in turn being escorted by armed men to use a toilet so filthy Jaime was certain he’d need shots for every communicable disease known to Oldtown University, provided of course he got out of this alive.

The second day was mostly just tedious. The Brave Companions had taken their phones, of course, and it had been long years since Jaime had worn a watch. There was no way to gauge the passing of the slow and dragging hours except the sunlight fading from the window. Jaime tried to coax Brienne into conversation, but she gave only terse answers, and eventually he gave up and occupied himself running through all the lines for _Oathkeeper_ that he could remember, and then his last film _Stoneheart_. The ones before that were lost to his memory, try as he might to recall them. He could remember individual moments on the sets, and he could have picked up a sword and shot the fight scenes without even a rehearsal, but the individual lines? It all blurred together. _They’re all the same character, after all_. The man who shoved Lady Stoneheart’s son from a window was essentially the same person as the outlaw-with-a-heart-of-ice in _Robin of the Kingswood_ and the treacherous black brother undermining his Lord Commander in _The Deserter. _It was easier to remember Jeor Mormont’s stentorian command to search every ware-house, hen-house, dog-house and out-house in the region than it was to bring to mind any of the lines Jaime himself had said in that film.

He’d died in act two, of course. He always died in act two. The man who’d push a child to his death had to die in act two. Throw a child from a tower, stab a man in the street, strangle his own cousin … _cut a king’s throat._

Jaime closed his eyes. Someone at Casterly Rock Studios had leaked that scene. Tywin Lannister had sued, had threatened, and it had worked for a while, but there was the weirnet now, and nothing could be deleted forever. Given the secrecy Tywin had managed to ensure over what had really happened, for most of Westeros that rehearsed, staged, _fake_ murder would forever be what had really happened to Aerys Targaryen. _No-one ever remembers, or ever cares, that the camera wasn’t rolling. I wasn’t in my fucking costume. We were in the props room, not on set. _

But no. Jaime Lannister, sword as golden as his hair, striding forward with a swirl of his white cloak to drag the king off his throne was what people had seen, what people _knew_ as the truth. The old, mad king clawing at Jaime’s hand, his long nails drawing blood, as Jaime raised his sword.

_Burn them all. Burn them all._

That part had been accurate, at least.

He still saw green flames in his dreams, and sometimes waking, too. He’d turned down what would have been a good role in _Blackwater Bay_ once he’d realised it would mean twenty nights at least of filming with wildfire. _It’s safe_, every stunt man Jaime had worked with always said, and yes, it _was_ safe in their hands, it was safe with precautions, it was safe when professionals used it.

_Burn them all. _

The door opened and Jaime’s eyes flew open. The man in the clown-suit – Shagwell, his name was – stood there, with a gun pointed at Jaime.

“You don’t need that,” Brienne said calmly. “We won’t be any trouble.”

“I don’t take orders from bitches,” Shagwell spat. He waggled the gun. “Up. Both of you. Vargo wants to see you.”

They were prodded down the hall and into a room Jaime had glimpsed on his escorted trips to the bathroom. It looked to be the main common room of the gang’s clubhouse – it was certainly what Jaime would have expected to see in a film about one. Tattered couches, stained beanbags, a pool-table with ripped felt, empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays.

Vargo Hoat, for that was the name of the gaunt, bearded man who seemed to run the Brave Companions, was ensconced on a brown velour sofa. “Lannithter,” he said. “Your father ith being thupid. He theemth to think thith ith a time to bargain.”

“I’m sure that’s just a misunderstanding,” Brienne said quickly.

“Thut the bitch up,” Hoat said. The big noseless biker stepped forward and, without hesitation, punched Brienne in the stomach hard enough to send her to her knees, coughing and retching.

“Sapphires,” Jaime said.

Hoat’s eyes narrowed. “No broken boneth.”

“Gotcha, boss.”

Jaime tried not to listen to the sounds of the beating. _She’s tough. Tougher than most men. She can take it. _Blows, grunts, a low groan torn from Brienne. Jaime kept his eyes on Hoat. “If my father needs persuading, I can persuade him.”

Hoat sneered. “Oh, give you your phone back?”

“You could let me send him a message. If I –”

Hoat rose to his feet. “Oh, you’ll thend him a methage, alright.” He jerked his head, and Jaime felt his arms seized. The fat giant shoved him to his knees, and Shagwell jumped onto his back, cackling.

Hoat leaned down, grabbed the rope that bound Jaime’s wrists, and yanked him forward until his arms were stretched to their limit. Reaching down, Hoat picked up a crowbar.

“What are you doing?” Brienne choked out behind Jaime. “Wait – think for a moment –”

“Tywin Lannithter cheated me onthe,” Hoat said. “Now he thinkth he can cheat me again.”

Jaime held Hoat’s gaze. _He means to scare me. He’s a petty criminal in a shithole town and he’ll feel like a big man if I cower and cry and beg him not to hurt me. _Jaime would never give him the satisfaction. He was Jaime Lannister, who could take and give blows from the toughest fighters in Westeros. He had stood up to his father, he had clawed a career out of disaster with sheer hard work and determination. No yellow-toothed, pot-bellied low-rent standover merchant would make him beg, would make him scream. He set his teeth as Hoat raised the bar above his head, taking the bluff to its limit.

“Don’t – don’t!” Brienne yelled.

The fluorescent light glinted sickly yellow off the crowbar as it came down, almost too fast to see. And Jaime screamed.


	12. Jaime IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.   
Specific chapter warning: canon-typical violence, canon-typical threats of rape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warning: canon-typical violence, canon-typical threats of rape

Jaime had never known there could be such a pain in all the world.

He’d broken bones before, a leg falling out of a tree as a boy, his arm twice in tourneys, and he suspected he’d had more cracked ribs than he’d bothered to see a maester about.

This, though, this was different. His right hand was a single giant throb of torment, lancing up his arm. He felt as if it was being held in a fire. Every movement, even trying to shift a little on the mattress, made him retch in agony. _Sticks and stones may break my bones_ … Jaime wasn’t sure how many bones Hoat had broken in his hand with that single, savage, blow. _Really, _a lot_ is about as accurate as I really feel the need to be. _He couldn’t see how bad the damage was: Brienne had splinted and bandaged his hand and fingers as best she could.

She’d been cool, even cold, very calm, when the Brave Companions had dragged them both back to their prison and flung them inside. Jaime had lain where they’d thrown him, sobbing with pain, but not Brienne. She’d shed the rope around her wrists and untied Jaimie, whispering apologies when he cried out in pain at her touch. With steely determination, she’d ripped into the mattress with nails and teeth, torn out pieces of wood from the frame, and improvised a splint for Jaime out of those and her T-shirt.

He’d screamed again when she tried to align the broken bones, screamed and then, mercifully, fainted.

That had been, he’d thought, as bad as it was going to be, but now he knew he was wrong. Somehow, impossibly, his hand ached and itched and burned and throbbed, all at the same time. The blinding agony that every movement brought was almost a relief: at least it was simple, at least he could try and ride it out and know it would ebb. Sometimes he was freezing cold, despite Brienne lying beside him with her arms around his waist, and sometimes he was so hot he would have stripped off his clothes if he had been able to move, and sometimes, somehow, he was both.

Old, half-remembered prayers spilled out of him at times. _The Mother gives the gift of life … the Warrior stands before the foe _… Jaime had always thought he was the Warrior, but how could the Warrior fight with his sword hand shattered? When he thought that, tears spilled out along with the prayers, until the time that Shagwell, bringing food and water, saw him and capered, laughing and jeering. After that, Jaime forced his eyes to stay dry. _I always hated when people laughed at Tyrion, but I never understood how it made him feel. _

He drank, when Brienne held the bottle to his lips, but he turned his face away from the food she offered, stomach roiling. _They will kill us soon. Or free us._ Did it matter either way? Even the little he could see of his hand told him it would be months, even years, before he could hold a sword again. And that was all he had to offer a director. _Dinner theatre it will be_. Truth be told, he’d rather die, especially knowing that he wouldn’t even have tourneys and faires to look forward to. _Who would have thought my last fight would have been against a woman, and neither of us armoured, and no-one but a gang of thugs to see? _

_I didn’t even win._

Brienne pinched off another piece of the stale sandwich that was that day’s food and tried to put it between Jaime’s lips again, and once more he turned his face away.

“Jaime,” she whispered, so faintly he might have imagined it. “Jaime, what are you doing?”

“I think I’m dying,” he whispered back, only knowing it as he said it. The pain in his hand was _wrong_, somehow, the nausea pulsing through him with every breath, the fever and chills and the bone deep ache.

“You can’t,” she said. “You have to stay alive.”

He wanted to laugh. "Stop telling me what do, wench. I'll die if it pleases me."

“Are you such a coward?” Brienne asked, shocking him.

_Coward? How could any man have been braver in this than I have been? _No-one had ever accused him, even behind his back, even in insinuations, of cowardice. Of murder, yes, of being a liar, of being cruel and heartless and reckless. _Never of cowardice_. "What do you expect me to do?"

“You have to live, you have to fight to live,” Brienne said. “Survive. Testify. Send them to jail.”

“As if that will give me my hand back,” Jaime said.

“What will happen to me, if you let yourself die?” Brienne asked. “They’ll kill me, ransom or no.”

Jaime hadn’t thought of that, and he felt something that, after a moment, he realised was shame.

Brienne had spoken incautiously loudly, though, and before Jaime could say anything, the door banged open, and the big man with the filed teeth stormed in.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” he raged at Brienne, kicking her. “Shut it or I’ll cut out your tongue and tear out your teeth and fuck you in the bloody hole that’s left. Shut your fucking mouth!”

_Coward_, Jaime thought. _Can it be true? They broke my hand. Did they break me too? Is that all I am, my sword hand? Gods be good, is it true?_

Brienne was curled up, trying to take the kicks on her arms and legs, fighting to stifle her cries.

Jaime took a deep breath, and shouted at the top of his lungs, “_Sapphires!_”

With a foul oath, the bikie turned his kicks on Jaime. The second struck his broken hand and Jaime howled. _There’s always more pain_, was the last thing he remembered thinking.

Somewhere on the other side of the screaming agony, Hoat was hollering something about _thapphirieth _and men were shouting and cursing, but Jaime couldn’t bring himself to care. _I’m dying. I’m dying, right now, I’m dying._

No. He couldn’t die. Tyrion would never forgive him if he died, and if he died, the Brave Companions would kill Brienne regardless of any promised ransom. He couldn’t die, because they would win. Jaime gritted his teeth and fought back to the shore of consciousness through the tide threatening to drag him away.

The Brave Companions were gone again. He and Brienne were alone. She lay on her side, facing away from him, curled up. Her breaths came short and hoarse.

“Brienne?” Even moving his left hand hurt, but Jaime managed it, touched her shoulder gently. “Is there anything …” _Anything I can do? _Fuck, he was a fool, because no, there was nothing he could do, not here, not now. “Brienne?”

“I’m alright,” she said tightly. “I will be.” She rolled over on to her back. “Why did you shout out?”

He snorted. “Why did I shout _sapphires_? Grow a brain, wench. Would they have cared if I’d shouted _help_ or _rape_?”

“You didn’t need to shout anything.”

“You’re ugly enough without your nose being broken _another_ time. Besides.” He grinned at her. “I wanted to make Hoat say _thapphireth_.”

Brienne stared at him, and then made a small choking noise. She covered her mouth with her hands, shoulders shaking. “Thapphireth,” she said past her fingers, and rolled over to press her face against the mattress. “Oh, gods, it’s not funny, none of this is funny, oh, gods.” 

She might have been crying as easily as laughing, from the noises she muffled with her palms. Jaime thought it might be a mix of both. He could hardly blame her.

Slowly, carefully, he rolled over and fumbled by the mattress with his left hand until he found what was left of his sandwich. He choked down a mouthful, then a second. That was all he could manage. _I’ll do better tomorrow. _

_Live. Fight to live. You are not a coward. You are not your swordhand. _

_Live._

The next day, he managed to swallow each bite of food that Brienne patiently fed him. “How long has it been?” he asked, in one of the intervals while they both waited for his stomach to stop trying to turn itself inside out.

“Three days. Since they –”

“Crippled me,” Jaime said. “You can say it.” He paused. “I don’t know why. Why did they do it?”

“They took a picture,” Brienne said. “To send to your father. As an incentive. But mostly?” She shrugged. “I think they did it because they could.” She tore off another bite of sandwich, and put it between his lips.

Time stretched and compressed strangely. Sometimes Jaime watched the sunlight take an eternity to crawl from one crack in the ceiling to the next and at others, dusk followed dawn in the blink of an eye. His hand hurt, hurt until it went beyond anything he could recognise as pain and was just a jagged blackness shot through with red at the end of his arm. It drew his strength, his warmth, everything that was himself, down into it and chewed and ate and burnt. _Jaime_, Brienne whispered into his ear, her arms around him, _Jaime_, _stay with me,_ but he couldn’t remember how to answer, he was hot and cold and disappearing into the hungry void that had used to be his strong right hand. A weight sat on his chest. _A bear. A wolf. A dragon_. Brienne put her arm beneath his shoulders and raised him to lean against her, and the weight eased. He could rest then, her arms strong and gentle around him, holding him against her warmth.

Jaime slept, or thought he did, woke to pale daylight and a stench –

_Shit._ Literally. His bowels had voided in his sleep.

Jaime tried to move but could barely manage to lift his good hand. “Brienne,” he whispered. “Brienne. I’m sorry, I –”

“It’s alright,” she whispered back. “It’s alright. I’ll take care of it. It’s alright.”

And _fuck_, he had to endure her stripping his pants and cleaning him as if he was an infant. It was a humiliation, but somehow, Brienne’s gentle matter-of-factness meant Jaime wasn’t humiliated. 

He passed out again at some point while she was using what was left of their bottled water and the clean portions of his tracksuit pants to wash him. When he came back to the world, Brienne had pulled his ski-pants back up, and was over by the door, rapping on it.

“He needs a maester,” she said to whoever opened it. “He’s going to die without a maester.”

Indistinct curses, and Brienne’s voice, clear and certain. “You won’t get a single stag in ransom if you can’t produce him when his family wants proof. He needs a medical care. A vet? I’ve heard dogs barking, outside. You must have at least a vet.”

Darkness, again. Jaime came back up from it to sharp stabs of agony as someone prodded his hand. He swore, and thrashed. Strong, gentle hands held him down.

“It’s alright. It’s alright. He’s helping you.”

Jaime opened his eyes to see a lean man with grey hair peering at his hand. “Who are you?”

“My name is Qyburn,” the man said. He prodded Jaime’s finger again and Jaime gagged on a scream. “I think it’s best to take this off.”

“No.” Jaime tried to drag his hand away from Qyburn’s grip.

Qyburn held on. “I diagnose compartment syndrome –”

“_No_!” Jaime said, and Brienne put her hand on Qyburn’s wrist and took his hand away from Jaime. “Take any one of my fingers and I promise you, you’ll learn how few fingers I’ll need to strangle you. What else can you do?”

Qyburn looked at Jaime’s face. Whatever he saw there gave him pause. “I can cut through the fascia …”

“Good. Go ahead.”

Qyburn stooped, reaching down beside the mattress. When he straightened he was holding a needle.

“What’s that?” Brienne asked.

“Ketamine,” Qyburn said. “It’s an animal sedative, but it will work on you.” He gave a small smile that Jaime deeply misliked. “After all, humans are just a species of animal.”

“No,” Jaime said immediately. _If he puts me to sleep, who knows what he’ll do._

“There will be pain,” Qyburn said, although he didn’t seem to be distressed by the idea.

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “Then I’ll scream.”

“A great deal of pain.”

“I’ll scream loudly.”

“Very well.” Qyburn glanced at Brienne. “You will need to hold his arm still. If you let him move …”

“I won’t,” Brienne said firmly.

She didn’t. Jaime did scream, and pounded the wall with his good hand, over and over, until Qyburn poured something that burned like acid over his fingers and hand, and he lost consciousness.

Qyburn was gone when he opened his eyes. Brienne was holding him propped up against her again, one arm about his waist and her other hand cradling his head against her shoulder.

“You have all your fingers,” she said the instant he stirred. “Jaime. It’s alright. He gave you an antibiotic shot and left some pills.”

He didn’t dare look at his hand. “How bad? How bad is it?”

“It’s bandaged,” Brienne said. “You’ll need surgery, he said, when we get out of here.”

Jaime closed his eyes again. “If.”

“When,” Brienne insisted, her fingers gentle on his hair. “When, Jaime. When.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am in no way medically trained and while compartment syndrome is real, I have no idea if it’s a real possible consequence of having your hand smashed by a crowbar. Do feel free to correct me in the comments!


	13. Jaime X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescue. Specific chapter warning for canon-typical violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For show-only peeps, it’s important to this chapter to know that in the books, Jon Snow is basically a clone of Ned Stark as far as appearance goes.

“Get up.”

Jaime opened his eyes. Shagwell stood over him, the noseless man behind him. “Is this the seven o’clock wake-up call I requested? Because –”

Shagwell kicked him in the ribs and Jaime curled up, coughing for breath. “Shut the fuck up, cunt, and get the fuck up.”

Despite Qyburn’s visit, Jaime still needed Brienne’s help to get to his feet. His hand had subsided to a constant throbbing ache, and his head was somewhat clearer, but the walls still spun around him as Brienne hoisted him up and braced him. He didn’t know how long it had been since that fateful day at Castel Cerwyn, but it had been long enough for his beard to grow past itching and his hair to fall into his eyes. His hand didn’t seem to be getting any worse, but nor did it seem to be getting any better.

_They’re better than nothing_, Brienne had said about the antibiotics, but Jaime had heard her trying to persuade their captors that he needed a better maester, a _real _maester and not a veterinarian. 

It had earned her a beating, the first time, and the second time, and the third. Now, as she drew his left arm over her shoulders and took his weight, her right eye was swollen nearly shut, her lower lip split and swollen. Bruises in every shade from blue to yellow marked what little skin her coat exposed, bruises on bruises.

_She can’t take much more of this._

_We can’t take much more of this_.

They were shoved and prodded down the hall to the main room. Jaime’s knees weakened at the sight of Hoat. _No. I won’t be a coward. I won’t. _Brienne’s arm was firm and warm around his waist. _We have to get out of this. I have to get her out of this_.

They were shoved to the floor.

“You need to make a phone call,” Hoat said.

“I’d love to,” Jaime said, and grunted as Shagwell kicked him in the kidneys.

Hoat offered him a phone. “Your father wanth to hear from you before he thends the money. Call him.”

Jaime took a deep breath. “You’ll have to give me the number,” he said. “I don’t memorise phone numbers anymore.” The truth, of course, was that Jaime hadn’t been on speaking terms with Tywin for years, but that would hardly help his current situation. Hoat sneered, punched a number into the phone, and then switched it to speaker-phone. Jaime listened to the dialling tone until a click signalled someone had picked up. “Hello?”

“Jaime,” said _not _his father. _Tyrion._

Jaime swallowed. “Hello.”

“Is that really you?”

_Of course it’s really me_. _I’d_ _know Tyrion’s voice_ _blindfold, underwater, at the age of ninety. How can he_ – Brienne tightened her arm around his waist and when Jaime glanced at her, her expression was intense, as if she was trying to communicate something wordlessly. _I’m not fucking psychic, wench. _

Jaime cleared his throat. “I suppose you need some sort of proof.”

“That’s right.” Tyrion’s voice was level and steady, but Jaime knew his little brother well enough to know he wasn’t calm.

“Something only I would know.” _Fuck_. His head was spinning. What had Brienne said? It was a million years ago. He groped for the memory, his thoughts as sluggish as fish half-hibernating beneath the winter ice. _The police won’t let your family pay the money until they have a plan to find you and get you out._

_Then why ask? Why insist on speaking to me? Why –_

Shagwell kicked him in the back again. “You’re here to talk. So talk.”

_Are they tracing the call? Can you do that, with mobile phones? I know they do on TV. _“Do you remember …” Jaime’s mind raced. The Watch had to be at least listening. What could he tell them, without alerting Hoat and the others? What should he say? “When I was twelve? We spent the summer at the lake house.”

“I remember,” Tyrion said, which was a lie, because there was no lake house, and when Jaime had been twelve Tyrion had been four. “Give me more details.”

“Tyrion and I used to hide in the back room,” Jaime improvised desperately. “Under the bed, when people came looking for us.” Gods, was he making sense? Would whoever was listening understand that there were twelve members of the Brave Companions, that there was a room at the back where he and Brienne were being held? “Do you remember that, _father_? You came storming in looking for us, one time, and you found us _in the back room._”

“I remember.” Tyrion was a good liar, well, it was his profession as much as it was Jaime’s. He paused. “And the cellar.”

“No,” Jaime said. “There was no cellar, and no second floor. Just the front room, and the back room.” _We’re in a one-story building with two main rooms. _

“That’s right. Good. I needed to make sure it was really you,” Tyrion said. “I –”

Hoat took the phone away and turned the speaker off. “Thatithfied?” he said into it. “Now thend the money. I – no, I _thaid_ – fuck!” He flung the phone down. “Take them back,” he ordered Shagwell. “The cunt wanth to thee them when he bringth the money.”

Jaime and Brienne were hauled to their feet and dragged roughly back to their prison. The moment the door locked behind them, Brienne picked up the mattress and set it on edge.

“Come here,” she said, and when Jaime was slow to take her meaning, she took his left arm and drew him over to the wall. “Lie down, up against the wall.” When he did, she lay down beside him and pulled the mattress over both of them.

“Are they coming?” Jaime whispered.

“Yes.” Brienne voice was firm. She shifted a little so her body was over his, arms sheltering his head. “That was clever, what you did. I presume there isn’t a lake house?”

“Tyrion –”

Suddenly there was a _boom_, distant but still loud. Brienne tensed, arms tightening around him. A clamour of voices, shouting, too many for Jaime to make out words except Hoat roaring _Crowth! Crowth!_ A gunshot, another, running footsteps –

_Boom_ again, loud and close. The door flew inward with a splintering crash and men were shouting “Night’s Watch! Night’s Watch!” The mattress was yanked off them and Brienne let go of Jaime and raised her hands above her head. Past her shoulder, Jaime could see three men crowded around them, all in black from head to foot. They were all holding guns, although not pointed directly at him or Brienne.

“We’re the hostages,” Brienne said. “The hostages. No weapons.”

The guns went into holsters. “Hostages secure, sir,” one of the men said into the radio clipped to his shoulder.

Brienne sat up, slowly, still keeping herself between Jaime and the black brothers. “He needs medical attention,” she said.

Another man came into the room, and Jaime realised he was more feverish than he’d known, because it was Eddard Stark, as he had been years ago. The long, solemn face, the eyes of ice – darker than Jaime remembered. _Winter is coming_, the Stark words said, and Jaime had sometimes thought that winter started in Ned Stark’s cold stare. “I had nothing to do with it,” he told the shade of Ned Stark. “I swear it.”

Ned moved Brienne aside, gently but firmly, and knelt down beside Jaime. He took off his shaggy black coat and laid it over Jaime’s legs. It felt surprisingly real for a hallucination or a ghost, still warm, too. “You’re alright now,” he said in the strong Northern burr of all the Starks. “You’re alright.”

“And about Aerys – you should have asked.” Jaime struggled up on one elbow, head spinning. “You should have fucking asked. Just once.”

“Qhorin, put a hurry up on the paramedics,” Ned said over his shoulder, and one of the other men went running out.

_Apparently other people can see my hallucination. _There was a dog there, too, a giant white shaggy thing the size of a small pony, or indeed a large one, wearing a black harness that looked like dog-armour. _That can’t be real, any more than Ned Stark can be. _ “Good boy,” Jaime said to his imaginary dog. It ignored him. 

Ned turned back to Jaime. “Just lie still. We’ll have you on the way to the hospital soon.” 

“Be careful,” Brienne said, hovering behind Ned. “They broke his hand.”

“I saw the picture. Mr Lannister has had maesters flown in all the way from Oldtown. They’re waiting at the Moat Cailin hospital.”

Jaime snorted. “You knew my father. He’d never do that. Never spend that much money, not for me.”

“Mr _Tyrion_ Lannister,” Ned said. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your father.”

“Of course you’ve _met_ him.” Jaime frowned. “I mean, even after _Kingslayer_, you worked for him several times. He got you your second Iron Throne award!”

“Ah.” A small smile touched Ned’s mouth. “I think you’re confusing me with my uncle. I’m Commander Jon Snow of the Night’s Watch.”

That made several things make more sense. “Your uncle.” _Poor dead Ned_. “I didn’t know.” It seemed important that Snow understood that. “I didn’t know. I would have done something, called the gold cloaks, _something_. I know your wife – your aunt – I know she thinks I … I don’t know, _sent_ him, even, but I swear I didn’t. Stark. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

“Alright,” Ned Stark said. _No. Snow. Jon Snow. _He put his hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “Don’t agitate yourself about it, Mr Lannister.”

There were people there with a stretcher all of a sudden and Jon was gone. Jaime could hear Brienne saying _be careful, be careful of him_ somewhere as they lifted him, but he couldn’t see her past them. “Brienne. Brienne!”

“I’m here,” she said, but they were carrying him out now and her voice was too far away. Jaime cursed them, trying to get off the stretcher, but to no avail. “Jaime, it’s alright!” she called, even further away.

“Brienne!” And the Stranger take the paramedics, they set him down and started strapping restraints over him and he was too weak to fight them. “Brienne!”

“I’m here,” and she _was_, kneeling beside him. She took his good hand. “Jaime, it’s alright. They’re taking you to the hospital.”

“Mind the blood,” one of the paramedics said to her.

Jaime turned his head and saw there was a veritable lake of it on the floor. Bodies, too, Hoat among them, Shagwell, the man with no nose. He thought of the gunshots he’d heard, the nervousness of the men who’d first broken into his and Brienne’s prison. Jon Snow’s calm, Stark face and ice-cold eyes. _Winter came. Winter came for the Brave Companions._

They didn’t look like the corpses in movies, not even the hyper-realistic dummies prop departments could make these days. They looked –

_Like Aerys did. _Jaime’s stomach lurched and cold sweat broke out on his face.

“He’s going to be sick,” Brienne said sharply. “Turn him, he’s going to be sick!” Then, as he started gagging, she hauled him over herself and braced him as he retched and coughed and vomited, on himself and on the floor but mostly on Brienne.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime said, to her, to the paramedics, to Ned Stark’s ghost and Ned Stark’s nephew. And to poor mad Aerys Targaryen who’d only had one scared seventeen-year-old boy to try to stand between him and his insanity. “I’m sorry.”

Brienne hushed him, and wiped the vomit from his beard with her sleeve. “They’re going to give you something to help you be calmer,” she said. “Alright? And then take you to the hospital.”

“With you?”

“Yes, I’m going to the hospital too.”

“With me.” It was important, it was somehow the most important thing in the world. “Brienne. With me?”

She glanced at the paramedics, and then looked back down at him. “Yes. With you.”

_That’s alright, then._ Jaime let them give him the shot. Brienne held his left hand as they carried him outside, let go as they loaded him into the ambulance and settled herself at his feet, one hand resting on his ankle. Whatever they’d given him was making it harder and harder to stay awake, which he didn’t like, but it was doing bloody wonders for the pain in his right hand. And Brienne was there, so it didn’t matter that his eyes were closing of their own accord, that the world was fraying around the edges, that he was floating away from the siren and the paramedics’ voices and the sway and jolt of the vehicle. His wench wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

Darkness closed over him, warm and soft.

_Brienne is here, _Jaime thought, and let it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon Jaime could probably wade through a literal lake of blood without turning a hair, but my Modern AU Jaime hasn’t had the same decades of actual battles as Canon Jaime.


	14. Tyrion I

_It is therefore self-evident that the court has both the power and the responsibility to dismiss this charge and –_

A noise drew Tyrion’s attention from his laptop and raised his head, hoping to see his brother awake. _No_. He studied Jaime’s profile for a moment. The maesters had assured him that his brother had come through the long surgery on his shattered hand well, had roused appropriately from the anaesthetic in recovery, and simply needed sleep.

As minutes stretched into hours, Tyrion found that less and less reassuring, despite the quiet and steady _bleep_ from the monitors. He’d never seen his golden brother like this: grey-skinned, gaunt, ungroomed and bearded. He looked five years older and fifteen pounds lighter and even in sleep there were lines around his mouth and eyes that Tyrion had never seen before. Jaime’s right arm was encased in a cast from finger-tips to elbow and Tyrion knew that beneath it was a patchwork of wounds and surgical scars. _Will he get full use of it back?_ he’d asked the maester. Her answer had been a less-than-reassuring _Possibly. _

Tyrion felt helpless, and he profoundly disliked feeling helpless. He’d been helpless for much of his childhood, in the face of his father’s relentless disdain and open contempt. Jaime had protected him, from their father, from bullies at school, from Cersei when her family visited. More than protected: Jaime had loved him. He’d spent his allowance buying Tyrion toys, he’d spent his time playing with him, reading to him. When Tyrion had gotten old enough, Jaime had taken him to marathon movie screenings at the Lannisport Cinema, the two of them sitting in the back row and making themselves sick on popcorn and soft-drinks and candy while Jaime explained exactly what made the film good or bad and Tyrion hung on every word. Even after Jaime’s life had imploded with the _Kingslayer_ scandal, he was always there when Tyrion needed him. In high school, as the idea of becoming a lawyer had become more and more attractive to Tyrion, it had been Jaime in the audience during moot courts and debates, and it had been Jaime who had taught Tyrion how to project and control his voice, how to use his hands and his expression to sway his listeners, Jaime who had listened to him practice over and over again, Jaime who was there when he won or when he lost. Who had attended his graduations, celebrated his exam results and his first win in court …

And here was the first time that Jaime needed _him_, and for all the wealth and influence Tyrion had armoured himself with over the years, there was nothing meaningful he could do to _fix things_ for Jaime the way Jaime had so often made things better for him. 

He put his laptop down and hopped down from the chair he’d been perched off, going to peer more closely at Jaime’s face.

“Go get a maester,” Tyrion said. “I think he’s waking up.”

Bronn didn’t move from the couch he was sprawled across. “You’ve thought he was waking up five times now.”

“This time I think I’m right.”

“You’ve thought you were right –”

Tyrion gave him a hard look. “Let’s pretend this is an alternative universe where I sign your paycheque, and where you do what I ask in exchange for me giving you money. Oh, wait … that’s _this _universe.”

Bronn raised his hands in surrender, and got to his feet. “Alright, I’m going, I’m going.”

He slouched out, and Tyrion leaned closer to the hospital bed. “Jaime? Can you hear me?” He put his hand over his brother’s uninjured left. “Jaime?” Jaime’s eyelids fluttered. His lips moved a little, soundlessly. “Jaime, you’re in the hospital. You’re going to be alright.”

“Tyrion?” Jaime’s voice was merely a thread.

“Yes. It’s alright, Jaime, I’m going to take care of everything.” How, he wasn’t sure, except by throwing money at the problem. It had worked so far, to some degree at least. _The best maesters, whatever specialists and surgeons and everything he’ll need, whatever it costs, I don’t care, just get them, and you’ll put him in your best room if you have to fucking build one, do you understand? _Dragons talked, had always been Tywin Lannister’s philosophy, dragons talked and lions roared and between the two a Lannister could get anything they wanted. _I want my brother unharmed. Can I purchase that, father? Can I shout his bones back to one piece? _

Jaime’s eyes opened, closed again, opened. “Tyrion.”

Tyrion held his brother’s hand tightly. “Yes.”

“Throat hurts.”

“Bronn’s getting the maester, they’ll fix that. It’ll be alright, Jaime. Do you want some water? Something else? I can get something else.”

The corners of Jaime’s mouth turned up a little. “Fuck, little brother. Am I dying? Because you’re acting like I’m dying.”

“You are not, you are _not_ dying,” Tyrion said, as fierce as Tywin had ever managed to be. _I may be a small lion, but I’m still a lion_. “You’re going to be fine, do you hear me? Fine.”

“My hand?” Jaime asked hoarsely.

“Will heal.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. “Does it hurt very much? The maester –”

Jaime shook his head slightly, without raising it from the pillow. “It’s hurt worse. Where’s Brienne?”

Tyrion drew a blank on the name for a moment, and then remembered the briefing from Commander Snow. “Brienne Tarth? She’s … I’m not sure, but I’m sure she’s fine.” No-one had said she _wasn’t_ fine, after all. 

The maester arrived, Bronn behind her. She was quickly followed by several more when it was apparent that Jaime was, finally, awake. Tyrion found himself shunted aside as they shone lights in Jaime’s eyes and pricked his fingers with a pin and listened to his chest, until Jaime took a deep breath and roared _Enough _in a creditable imitation of their father.

“I want,” he said slowly and clearly, “something to make my throat stop hurting. I want someone to help me to the bathroom before I piss myself. And I want to know how Brienne Tarth is.”

“I can help you to the lav, as long as you can hold your own cock,” Bronn said cheerfully.

“Deal,” Jaime said. “And if I can’t, I’ll try to piss on your feet rather than mine.”

“That’s fine.” Bronn put his arm under Jaime’s shoulders and helped him sit. “Your brother will buy me new shoes. And I have expensive tastes.”

Jaime laughed. It was barely more than a cough, but for an instant, he was the brother Tyrion had always known. “Tyrion. Brienne.”

“I’ll find out,” Tyrion assured him.

Brienne Tarth, he learned from the nurse at the station in the corridor, had not been discharged yet. Even the vast amount of money Tyrion was currently paying for Jaime’s stay in the very best private room in the Moat Cailin hospital was not enough to overcome the nurse’s adherence to the principles of privacy, however, so that was _all_ he learned. She was willing to part with Brienne Tarth’s room number, though, so he went to investigate for himself.

Miss Tarth was accommodated in a notably less luxurious part of the hospital. Probably the original building, Tyrion realised as he navigated the maze of corridors. He found the right room and rapped his knuckles against the open door.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice said.

He stepped inside. “Miss Tarth?”

_The must be the woman Jaime described as his ‘minder’_. He would have to withhold judgement on whether or not her face could, as his brother had said, curdle milk, given it was currently black and blue and swollen, but even lying down it was clear she fit the description of an absolute giant.

“I’m Brienne Tarth,” she said.

He went over to the bed and reached up to shake her hand. “Tyrion Lannister, at your service. Jaime’s brother, in case our remarkable resemblance didn’t make it immediately obvious. How are you feeling?”

Brienne took his fingers gingerly, as if worried she might crush them in a moment’s carelessness. “I’m fine. Nothing broken. I’m just bruised. They’re discharging me tomorrow.”

“Very bruised,” Tyrion said, studying her face and then her arms, bared by her hospital gown. They were mottled black and blue and green.

“How is Mr Lannister?”

“Out of surgery, shouting at the maesters, and demanding to know how you are.”

She bit her lip. “And his hand?”

“Still attached.” Tyrion kept the maester’s pessimism to himself. _Jaime should be the first to get that news_.

“Good. That’s good.” Brienne’s relief was palpable in her voice. “He saved my life. I owe you my thanks, too, Mr Lannister, for what you did to help the Watch find us.”

“Ah.” Tyrion grimaced. “I’m afraid my family owes you an apology, too. Or at least, my father does, and since he’ll never give it, allow me to offer one on his behalf. Apparently your kidnapping wasn’t entirely random.”

Brienne nodded. “They recognised Jaime, I mean Mr Lannister.”

“They may very well have been looking for him,” Tyrion explained. “My father … he has some unsavoury business associates, and, while I can’t prove it, I have a strong suspicion the Brave Companions were among them. Or at least, associates of my father’s associates. There was apparently a disagreement over payment and …” He shrugged. “They thought Jaime would provide them leverage, my father responded with threats rather than the sort of alarm one would think a father ought to feel when his eldest son is being held prisoner by violent thugs, and matters escalated. Rather than you thanking me, I ought to be thanking you. It was your father who alerted the authorities, the Night’s Watch who contacted _me_ when my father refused to get involved. If not for the Tarth family, I quite possibly would never have seen my brother again, and I’m really very fond of him.”

Brienne was gaping at him with the expression people usually wore when they first began to understand just what sort of man Tywin Lannister was: sheer disbelief. “But he … didn’t he realise what would happen? How could he … I mean … Jaime’s his _son_.”

“According to our father, he has no sons. Jaime he disinherited for not doing what he was told, and me, well.” Tyrion indicated his stature. “I was more-or-less _born_ to be inevitably disinherited. Father would rather receive Jaime’s severed head parcel-post than lower himself to do someone else’s bidding.”

“That’s _terrible_,” Brienne said, and Tyrion was astonished to see her eyes brim with tears. It made them seem even more blue.

“He’s a terrible man, in every sense of the word.” Tyrion gave her a smile. “We’re quite used to it. Now, I must get back to Jaime. Is there anything you need, or want? I understand that hospital food is universally reputed to be inedible, and there must be at least one decent restaurant in Moat Cailin that delivers. Books, magazines? A laptop? A phone? A hotel room for when you’re discharged, of course. I assume the production is covering your medical costs and sick-leave, because if not, I can arrange –”

“No, that’s quite alright, Mr Lannister,” Brienne said. “My room-mate is bringing me clothes, and my father is staying a few days, I’ll stay with him until he goes home. I don’t know what happened to my phone, and I shouldn’t get a new one until I know. The police might have found it, if the Brave Companions kept it.”

“Well.” Tyrion took out his card case and gave one to her. “All my numbers are on there. Please let me know when you have a phone, and most certainly let me know if there’s anything I can do, for you or your father. I may be small, but my wealth is sizeable, and it would be my very great pleasure.”

Brienne nodded, turning the card over between her thick fingers. “Please give your brother my best wishes for his quick recovery.”

“I will,” Tyrion assured her. “As you have ours, for yours.”

A strange, formal, almost shy giantess, Tyrion thought as he made his way back up to Jaime’s suite. _Sensitive, too. I think she really was nervous she’d break my fingers when she shook my hand. _He was used to a world where he was always too small for things. Brienne had probably had to get used to a world where she was always a little too large for things. _Both of us mis-sized by general standards_. It made him laugh, that he had a common cause with a woman who could probably have hoisted him with one hand.

“Brienne?” Jaime asked, the second Tyrion was through the door. He was back in the bed, looking a little less faded but still ghastly. “How is she – _where_ is she?” 

“She’s well, and downstairs. She swore to me she’s no more injuries than bruises, they’ll send her home tomorrow, apparently.” Tyrion dragged a chair closed to the bed and hopped onto it. “I left her my card in case there’s anything she needs. She sends her best wishes for your recovery.” He eyed Jaime’s cast. “Have the maesters spoken to you yet, about your recovery?”

Jaime closed his eyes, his mouth set in a grim line, and nodded. “More surgeries. Months of rehab, as much as a year. No guarantee.” He was silent a moment. “So much for _Oathkeeper_.”

“Most of the bones in your hand and wrist were broken, Jaime, and some of those multiple times. It will take time, but you _have_ time. As much as you need. That is one benefit of having a little brother with a wildly profitable legal practice, you know: you don’t actually _have_ to earn a living unless you want to.”

Jaime snorted without opening his eyes. “I don’t fancy a future as a pensioned invalid dependent on your charity.”

“Jaime Lannister, you listen to me.” Tyrion used his best _recalcitrant witness_ voice, and Jaime’s eyes opened in surprise. “I doubt I would have survived my childhood if not for you. I suspect I owe you my actual life, and I certainly owe you the life I’m living, which I quite enjoy by the way.”

“I didn’t do anything because I expected you to pay me _back_ for it,” Jaime snapped, and Tyrion was pleased to see the old fire in his brother’s eyes.

“No. You took care of me, when I needed it, because I’m your brother, and you loved me. And you’re my brother, and I love you. Am I not allowed to help _you_?”

Jaime swallowed, and blinked hard. “Tyrion.” His left hand reached out blindly.

Tyrion took it in both his own. “I will make it alright, Jaime. Do you remember when you used to say that to me? And you always did. Even when you couldn’t, you still did. And I will.”

“Can you grow me a new hand?”

“If necessary, I will personally fund the research into human cloning that will grow you a new hand.”

Jaime chuckled a little. “You know, that will _really_ make father die of fury. If the Lannister name goes down in history because Tyrion Lannister funded a world-first medical breakthrough.”

“Another excellent reason to do it.” Tyrion squeezed Jaime’s fingers. “You should rest.”

“Mmm.” Jaime blinked, his eyes closing again almost immediately. “Brienne. Make sure she’s alright.” He yawned. “She saved my life.”

And just like that, he was asleep.

Tyrion sat as still as he could, ignoring the cramp in his legs, fingers still folded around Jaime’s. _Sleep, brother. Mend. Heal. _

_Leave everything else to me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : So this Tywin is somewhat OOC, given that in canon he started a war to get Tyrion back, let alone Jaime, but IMO it’s clearly because of pride, rather than affection. Tyrion concludes when Jaime is taken prisoner “You have given him up for lost, he thought. You bloody bastard, you think Jaime's good as dead, so I'm all you have left. Tyrion wanted to slap him, to spit in his face, to draw his dagger and cut the heart out of him and see if it was made of old hard gold, the way the smallfolks said.” Since *this* modern Tywin’s idea of his legacy is not ‘a dynasty that could last a thousand years’ but his body of work, it felt right to me that his prideful response to a ransom demand would be along the lines of ‘how dare you think you can dictate terms to me!’.


	15. Brienne IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has several conversations.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Dad,” Brienne said for the fourth or fifth time. “Ygritte must have been held up.”

Selwyn put his hand over hers. “It’s fine, sweetling. It’s not like I’ve come north to do anything other than spend time with you. Should I mind, that it’s in a hospital room rather than a hotel room?”

“You didn’t have to come,” Brienne said, also for the fourth or fifth time. “I would have been fine.”

Her father put his arm around her shoulders, gently, careful of her bruises. “I know. My girl is the equal of anything. I didn’t come because I thought you needed me to hold your hand, my dear.”

“I was a little scared,” Brienne admitted quietly.

Selwyn chuckled. “That just shows you have a functioning brain. It was a dangerous situation, and you did very well, and that’s my professional opinion as well as my parental bias. And –”

“Sorry!” Ygritte burst into the room, her hands full of plastic bags. “I would have been here an hour ago, but Hunt the Cunt can’t read, apparently, and we had to redo the butterflies _and_ the cookies.”

“It’s alright, Ygritte. I really owe you for coming all this way,” Brienne said. “This is my dad, Selwyn.”

“Hi!” Ygritte flung the bags on the bed, and shook Selwyn’s hand. ‘I’m Brienne’s roommate, well, trailer-mate. She talks about you all the time.”

“I’m glad to know it. You work on the film, too?”

“I’m a gang grip,” Ygritte said. “That means, I move stuff where my boss tells me to move it.”

Brienne rummaged through the bags and pulled out a shirt and trousers, and then a giant insulated coat she recognised as Sandor’s spare. “Have you heard anything about how Mr Lannister’s injury will affect the shoot?”

“Only rumours.” Ygritte plopped herself down on the end of the bed and fished a pair of underpants out of one of the bags, offering them to Brienne with apparently no understanding that a woman grown might not want her father to see her smallclothes. “I couldn’t find any bras in your drawers, sorry.”

Brienne glanced down at her nearly flat chest. “I don’t wear them. What are the rumours?”

“Lucky you,” Ygritte said. “I heard the Queen of Thorns is getting Oberyn Martell to replace him.”

“Oberyn Martell?” Brienne gaped, clothes momentarily forgotten. “But he – it’s not his sort of role.” Oberyn Martell had yet to headline a successful blockbuster, but he had a solid career playing best friends, side-kicks, and brothers of the hero.

Ygritte shrugged. “They’re rewriting it, or something.”

Brienne scowled down at the bed. _Oh, so it was necessary for Ms Tyrell’s vision that Lion be a monster when Jaime Lannister was playing him, but not when it’s Oberyn Martell?_ The Dornishman’s smug smirk swam in her mind’s eye, and her fists clenched on the shirt she held. “And Mr Lannister?”

Ygritte shrugged. “Dunno. I mean, he’s insured, right? All the stars are. So it’s not like they need him to work his value off.”

“No.” Brienne bundled her clothes together, and turned for the bathroom. “No, I suppose not.”

It took her longer than usual to dress, her arms and legs still stiff and sore. It was a relief when the long sleeves of the shirt and the trousers covered the green, blue and purple bruises stripping her arms and legs. Her heavy arms and thick thighs were unattractive enough without their addition. There was nothing she could do about her black eye, split lip, or bruised cheeks. Gritting her teeth against the ache it caused her, Brienne raised her arms long enough to rake her hair into some semblance of order. She grimaced at herself in the mirror, and went back out to rescue her father from Ygritte.

When they reached the motel, the desk clerk handed three messages to Brienne. She scanned them, expecting something from Davos Seaworth about work, but instead –

_Please call Commander Snow, at your earliest convenience. – Jon Snow._

_Whatever time you need to recover, the production will cover it. – Olenna Tyrell._

_Are you sure you wouldn’t like an upgrade to a four star hotel? – Tyrion Lannister. _

Brienne crumpled the last. _As if I deserve thanks and some sort of a reward. Jaime saved my life and I let them do _that_ to him. _

“Alright?” her father asked, and Brienne made herself smile, and nod.

It was _not_ alright. _Nothing is more hateful than failing to protect someone you should_. And she had failed to protect Jaime. She had not been able to see a way to get them both away from the Brave Companions at Castle Cerwyn, she had not been able to stop Vargo Hoat turning his hand into tenderised meat … She crumpled the message from Olenna Tyrell as well. _If there was anything I was supposed to do, it was to keep Jaime Lannister safe. _

When Brienne phoned the Watch station from her motel room, Commander Snow told her he needed to clarify a few details in her statement, and so an hour later, she found herself sitting in his office.

In those hellish last moments at the Brave Companion’s hideout, Brienne had been too focused on Jaime to register Commander Snow as much more than _dark hair, dark eyes, black Night’s Watch uniform_. Now, sitting across from him as he tapped away at whatever would take him _two minutes, Miss Tarth_, she could understand how Jaime had confused Jon Snow for his uncle Eddard Stark. He had the Stark look more strongly than any of the Starks Brienne had met, except for little Arya, who was a tiny female copy of her father. Lean and long-faced, and most of all, those distinctive grey eyes.

The huge white dog that had been with him was sprawled beside his desk, eyeing Brienne. It had the look of a wolf-cross. _Big enough to be a _direwolf_ cross, if direwolves really existed._ She lowered her hand toward the floor and averted her eyes. After a moment she felt a cold nose sniffing at her fingers, and then the rough rasp of a tongue across her hand. 

“You know dogs,” Snow said, amused.

Brienne looked down at the animal. “Yours, or a Watch dog?”

“Bit of both,” Snow said. “Ghost, his name is.”

Ghost leaned against Brienne’s legs and put his head in her lap. “He was with you yesterday. He’s an attack dog?” She scratched behind Ghost’s ears. “He seems a bit friendly for that.”

“He has good instincts. Better than most people.” Snow moved papers about on his desk and picked one up. “You gave a description of the maester the Brave Companions brought to treat Mr Lannister. Can you look at these pictures and see if he’s there?”

Brienne took the page, a standard photo I.D. sheet with six pictures of middle-aged, clean-shaven men. “Number four,” she said immediately. “Qyburn.”

Snow took the sheet back. “And is there anything you can think that you’d like to add to your account? About him, or anything else? Anything you’ve remembered from yesterday?”

Brienne could hardly remember what she’d said yesterday. Her father had told her enough stories about his job over the years for her to have absorbed the importance of the police having early, accurate and comprehensive information, and when Qhorin and Pyp had turned up with questions, Brienne had poured out every detail she could recall even while the maesters were checking for broken bones and internal injuries.

But even as the words had spilled from her lips, half her mind had been with Jaime Lannister, whisked away from her on a stretcher as soon as the ambulance disgorged them. Irrational as it was, she’d been unable to shake the conviction that something terrible would happen to him if she wasn’t there. _Which is unutterably stupid, because something terrible _did_ happen to him, and it happened _because_ I was there. _

Ghost whined, and nudged her hand. Brienne realised she’d stopped patting him, and started again. “Honestly, Commander Snow, I don’t know. I’m not sure if I told your officers everything yesterday or not.” She remembered what Tyrion had said. “Hoat did mention Tywin Lannister, did I say that? He said that Twyin had cheated him, in the past. Right before he – before he harmed Mr Lannister. And … I think I told them Qyburn was a veterinarian, but no-one actually said that, so I might have been just assuming.”

Commander Snow nodded, and made a note. He picked up another sheet of photos. “And do you recognise any of these men?”

It was more middle-aged, beardless men. Brienne looked at each photograph carefully, and then handed it back, shaking her head. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve never seen any of them before. Is –” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry, I should know better. You can’t tell me.”

Snow gave a small smile. “No. Now, I’m afraid I have bad news about your car. We’ve found it, but it’s been burned out. Are you insured?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “If you give your information to Danny Flint, on the desk, she’ll make sure you get a copy of the police report for your insurers. Your phone wasn’t damaged, but I’m afraid we need it for evidence. Danny will give you an information pack on how to claim for a replacement and what you’ll need to do to keep your number.”

Brienne was fairly sure she could navigate the process herself, but she nodded, gave Ghost one final pat, and stood up.

“Oh, one more thing,” Snow said. He leaned down and picked up a long, thin bundle from beside his desk. “We found these where you said Hoat and his gang kidnapped the two of you. They’ve been printed, but the powder should clean off fine.”

Brienne took the bundle from him and felt a familiar weight: a sword, or, in this case, _swords_. The tourney swords Jaime had bought at Castle Cerwyn. _I shouldn’t have fought him_. If she’d thrown down the sword and yielded immediately … But she’d been annoyed with him and his frivolity, she’d resented how easily he could afford something she’d have to save up a year and more for. _I wanted to teach him a lesson._

It was her fault. None of it would have happened if she hadn’t given in to that impulse. Hoat had struck the blow that maimed Jaime, but Brienne’s failure had put Jaime in Hoat’s hands and at his mercy.

“These belong to Mr Lannister,” she said. “They’re not mine.”

“Can I trouble you to pass them on to him, then?”

“I don’t know when I’ll next see him. I doubt he’ll be back at work …”

Snow gave a slow blink. “Mmm. If it’s inconvenient, I can send an officer.”

“I … I can drop them off at the hospital,” Brienne offered. _They’ll take them at the desk. I won’t need to face him. _

Still, she took far more time than she needed to collecting her paperwork from the small, dark-haired woman at the desk and making absolutely sure Officer Flint had all the insurance details absolutely correct. Her steps dragged as she plodded the three blocks to the hospital, despite the cold. _I’ll just leave them at the desk. _

The glass doors of the hospital showed her a hulking monster, battered face and wind-blown hair above a bulky, formless body swathed in an oversized coat. Brienne averted her gaze from her reflection and trudged inside.

“I have a package for Mr Jaime Lannister,” she told the man behind the desk.

“Tenth floor, room 1003.”

“No, I –” she put the wrapped swords on the counter. “I just want to leave them.”

“Do I look like a bloody courier? Tenth floor, room 1003!”

Telling herself that there was every chance Jaime Lannister would be asleep and she could just leave the swords and slip away, Brienne found the lifts. She unzipped her coat, already sweating, but couldn’t manage to take it off, burdened as she was.

The door to room 1003 was closed, but as Brienne reached it, it flew open and a nurse fled out. She almost cannoned into Brienne, squeaked in startlement and bolted down the corridor.

“And stay out!” Jaime roared from inside the room. “If I see you again, I swear by the old gods and the new I’ll –” He appeared in the doorway, clad in a hospital gown, left hand reaching for the door, and stopped. “Brienne.”

“Commander Snow asked me to bring these,” Brienne said rapidly, holding the package out. “Your swords.” 

Jaime stepped back. “Come in.”

“No, I just –” Brienne paused, cursing herself for a fool. _He only has one good hand. Because of me, he only has one good hand. He can’t possibly take them from me._ She edged past him. “Where should I put them?” The room looked less like a hospital room and more like an expensive hotel: in fact, it would have been indistinguishable from a hotel room if not for the adjustable bed and the monitors set discreetly beside it.

“Anywhere.” Jaime made an expansive gesture. It almost unbalanced him, and Brienne hastily tossed the package on the bed and braced him. He smiled at her, although he didn’t seem to be quite able to focus on her face. “Thank you.”

“Are you alright?”

He snorted, and raised his right arm, encased in a cast from fingertips to elbow. “Apart from this?”

“I’m sorry, that was a stupid question. I think you should lie down again, Mr Lannister. I can get the nurse back … ”

“She’s not a nurse. One of Baelish’s creatures, I think. Said she was here to wash me and then tried to take a picture of my cock.” His words slurred together a little.

_Of course, they have him doped to the gills. _“What painkillers do they have you on?”

Jaime shrugged. “They’re blue. The pills.”

Brienne tried to steer him towards the bed. “If you just sit down, Mr Lannister, I’ll go and report her.”

“I do need to wash.” Jaime lowered his head and sniffed, then wrinkled his nose. “I still smell like the Brave Companions.”

She got him to the bed, and gently pushed him down onto it. “I really should go and tell someone there’s a person impersonating a nurse. Hospital security needs to be aware.”

“Will you come back?” He reached for her wrist, but only managed to knock his cast against her forearm. “Brienne?”

“If you like …” she said hesitantly.

Jaime smiled, and lay back against the pillows. “Good.”

Brienne informed the nearest hospital employee – careful to study their I.D. – about the intruder, and made her way back to Jaime’s room.

The bed was empty. So was the room.

“Mr Lannister?” she called softly. “Are you there?”

“In here.”

A door, ajar. Brienne shrugged out of her coat and approached it, hearing running water. “Are you –”

“Can you help me with this?”

She pushed the door a little further open. It was a bathroom, and like the other room it wouldn’t have been out of place in a luxury hotel. The water she had heard was the sound of taps filling a bathtub that was almost the size of a hot-tub. The only indication they were in a medical facility were the hand-rails by the bathtub, the toilet, and inside the shower.

Jaime was struggling to undo the fastening of his hospital gown at the back of his neck with his left hand. He turned his back. “Would you?”

Brienne carefully kept her eyes on his neck, and did not look down at whatever the gaping robe might disclose. “Are you sure you should be doing this? Wouldn’t a shower be better?”

The fastening parted and Jaime shrugged the gown off. He turned, naked as his name day, and raised his right hand. “Can’t get the cast wet.”

Brienne did not, _did not_, look down. “A nurse can wrap it for you, or I can.”

“Or I can just hold it out of the water and have a decent fucking bath,” Jaime countered.

“Let me call someone to help you, then.”

“I’ve had enough strangers staring at me for one week,” Jaime said. He peered at her. “_You_ help me.”

Brienne gaped at him. “Me?”

Jaime shrugged. “I trust you won’t be selling your story to _The Gulltown Gossip_ or doing an interview on _The Sand Snakes Say_. And you’ve already seen my arse. Seven hells, you’ve wiped it.” He raised his foot to step into the bath and lurched sideways.

Brienne grabbed his good arm before he could fall. “Mr Lannister!”

“_Jaime_,” he rasped.

She did her best to ignore his nudity. “This is extremely unwise.”

He steadied himself against her. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Mr Lannister, people drown in bathtubs under the influence of prescription medication, all too often.”

“Well, pull me out if I faint.” Leaning on her, Jaime put one foot into the bath and then the other. “I don’t want to be the first Lannister to die in the bath.” He began to sink down into the water.

“Watch your hand – mind your hand!” Brienne held his right arm up, trying to keep his cast clear of the water. “Mr Lannister, be careful.”

“_Jaime_!” he snarled, jerked himself free of her and subsided into the tub with a splash that sent a wave of water over the sides and drenched Brienne from the waist down.


	16. Jaime XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bath, although not in Harrenhal.

“Mr Lannister …”

_Mr Lannister. Mr Lannister. _Jaime closed his eyes. _I prefer not to be on first name terms with murderers,_ she’d said. His wench had whispered comfort in the darkest night, had helped him eat, had cleaned his shit, as if he were a person, as if, finally, he was once again a person.

And now he was _Mr Lannister_ again. _Murderer. _

_Kingslayer._

_Oathbreaker. Man Without Honour. _

“Your hand,” Brienne said. “Mr Lannister …”

He raised his right arm and propped his elbow against the edge of the tub. “There. It’s fine. I’m fine.” The heat of the water loosened knots in his legs and back he hadn’t even been aware of, and made his head spin. He reached out and fumbled up the soap with his left hand. “Go on, then. I’m fine.”

Brienne blinked at him. “You want me to go?”

“_You_ want to go.” Jaime scrubbed at his chest desultorily. “We’re not locked up together anymore. No need to put up with my company.” The soap slipped from his clumsy fingers and he groped for it in the water. “The company of a _murderer_, as you name me. On no evidence, but what does that matter?”

“You admitted it,” Brienne protested. “You admitted it to me.”

The soap escaped him. _Without my right hand, I can’t even undress and bathe myself. That bodes well for continuing my career. _Jaime gave up and leaned his head back against the lip of the bath. “You’re as bad as Ned Stark. I killed him, yes, I admit it. We were filming _Kingslayer_. My father’s masterpiece, he was convinced. The work that would secure his legacy as the greatest auteur Westeros has ever seen. Me, in my first big role.” Gods, he’d been young. _Young and foolish_. He’d started daydreaming about winning his first Iron Throne Award the moment his father had cast him. _It all could have been different. _“The Kingslayer is the hero of that story, not that anyone remembers now. And Aerys Targaryen, making a comeback after all those _vacations_ and _family breaks_ and _trips abroad._ The great Aerys Targaryen, playing the Mad King. Do you know the story?”

“The Rebellion?” Brienne nodded. “The North and the Vale and the Stormlands rose against the last Dragon King. His own Kingsguard killed him.”

Jaime snorted. “Dragon King. Perhaps. Perhaps he was a good king unjustly slain. Perhaps the Kingslayer was the villain of the piece. It’s not like anyone knows, after all this time. But in my father’s version … oh, he dug out every atrocity the Dragon Kings and Queens were ever accused of, no matter how old, how tenuous, no matter what the historians say.” He felt more and more lightheaded. _The heat. The heat and the painkillers. I am not myself._ He fumbled for the soap again, and this time Brienne reached down into the water and picked it up. Jaime took it from her fingers. “Thank you.”

She looked away, pink in the face. Her shirt was wet, now, as well as her trousers, clinging to her meagre curves and outlining the muscles of her arms and shoulders.

His cock stirred. Jaime realised he was staring, and averted his eyes. “It would have been a good film, if it’d been finished. The Mad King, last of the dragons, burning men and women and children alive with wildfire, convinced everyone was plotting against him, ready to burn down all of King’s Landing until the Kingslayer made an end to it. Aerys … he was terrifying in the role.” He closed his eyes and slid down in the tub until the water touched his chin. “My father would watch the rushes and tell me that I was giving the performance of a lifetime, but in truth, I was hardly acting. I would get put into the costume, the Kingsguard armour, the white cloak. I would walk onto the set – we were actually filming inside the Red Keep, the old Great Hall, have you seen it? Not the old one, of course, that burned with everything else, but the restoration. And Aerys would be on the throne, with his mad eyes, and I would forget the cameras and the booms and the lights. He grew his hair out, he grew his nails until they were claws, like his character. No wigs or prosthetics for the great Aerys Targaryen. I thought he was dedicated. I thought he was talented. I didn’t see what was really going on until far too late.”

“What was really going on?” Brienne echoed, sounding puzzled. “Mr Lannister. Don’t go to sleep, you can’t fall asleep in the bath.”

Jaime opened his eyes to see that she had perched herself on the edge of the tub. “Aerys had … many problems. I don’t know if a maester ever put a label on it, but all years he didn’t make a film? Hospitals, private discreet hospitals, or rehab, or both. Whatever they gave him, it didn’t work for long, or perhaps it only worked as long as he took it, and he always had the much better idea of medicating himself with whatever he could get his hands on.” He hoisted himself up a little. “And my father, my fucking father …” He gave a bitter laugh. “Who cares about the mental state and the welfare of a washed-up actor on his last chance when there’s a great film to be made, a masterpiece? Tywin Lannister and his favourite writer Pycelle, that grey sunken cunt. No need to take those pills, Aerys. Who knows what’s really in them? Have a drink, instead, have two, have a little pick-me-up, take this to calm down. Let’s do eighty fucking takes of the Mad King’s final turn into screaming insanity, and since we’re running so far over, maybe the grips have something to keep you going? My father insisted on using real wildfire, for _verisimilitude_. Perfectly safe when handled by experts, he insisted. None of us envied the stuntmen, though. Even pretending to be burned alive can’t be much fun.” His eyes were closed again, although he couldn’t remember shutting them, and green flames flickered against his eyelids. “None of us except Aerys. Every take he watched them burn, his eyes shining, licking his lips. Take after take, my father driving Aerys right to the edge, for the sake of his performance, for the sake of the great Tywin Lannister’s greatest film. Aerys stopped answering to his name, only to _your grace_. He would rave to me, to anyone who’d listen, that they were plotting against him, the grips, the gaffer, his body double, the carpenter. Everybody except the people he should have been wary of, my father, and Pycelle. _Them_, he trusted.”

“How did people let it get so far?” Brienne’s voice sounded faint and far away.

He drifted in heat, in memory. “I went to my father, I told him how erratic Aerys had become. He told me not to worry. He told me he was consulting with a doctor. I let him reassure me. I should have known better, even then, but I was seventeen, and he was my father, and he was Tywin Lannister. And then … that night, that fucking night.” _Why am I telling her this?_ “Aerys had been raving all day, on set, off set, the Mad King was plotting to destroy the city with his pyromancers and he kept muttering _burn them all, burn them all_. There were more lines, but it was even odds if Aerys could get them out. Take after take. _Burn them all. Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds. Let the Usurper be king of the ashes, let him rule over cooked meat and charred bones. Burn them all._ Every take he flubbed, we had to wait for them to reset, and he kept on and on while we waited, _burn them all, burn them all_. Finally we were finished, or my father gave up, I don’t know. It was past midnight. I got out of there and into wardrobe as quickly as I could. I was in such a hurry I was halfway back to my room when I realised I still had the Kingslayer’s boots on. Props was closer, so I figured I’d just drop them off there. But when I got there … Chelsted, the property master, was on the floor. He wasn’t breathing. I thought he’d had a heart attack or something, and then I saw the blood. No phones on set, of course, so I went into the props room to use the landline there to get help. And Aerys was there. He’d taken Chelsted’s keys and unlocked the cage they kept the wildfire locked inside, and he was pouring it all over the floor. _Burn them all. Burn them all_. Have you ever worked with wildfire?”

“No.” Brienne was so far away now Jaime could hardly hear her.

“A few drops will give you a pillar of flame, very dramatic on film. Just a few drops. Gallons of it? In the heart of the Red Keep? They would have seen the column of green fire in Dorne.” He could see it, against his eyelids, Aerys with his wild white hair, could smell the acrid stench of the wildfire. _Burn them all. _“And it’s slippery. Like grease, or oil. I tried to get to Aerys, to stop him, but I was still in those fucking Kingslayer leather-soled boots, for _authenticity_, and it was like trying to run on ice. I fell. Aerys was raving about all the people plotting against him, cast, crew, characters in the film, he was going in and out of character or there wasn’t any difference in his mind anymore. _Burn them all_. I fell again, and when I got up, there was a knife in my hand. A prop knife, but not really. It was on loan, like the Stark sword: Valyrian steel with a bone handle. I don’t remember picking it up, I don’t remember _meaning_ to pick it up, but it was in my hand and there was a cigarette lighter in _his_ hand. I threw myself at him. I don’t think I _meant_ to kill him, I don’t think so, but maybe I did. The knife went in so easily, whether I meant it or not, and he was just as dead, either way.”

The water had lost its heat. Jaime opened his eyes and stared at the cast covering the ruin of his right hand. The hand that stabbed Aerys Targaryen, the hand that was the foundation of his career. The hand that had made him an actor, a swordsman, and a killer. _And what now? What am I, now?_

Brienne was staring at him. “Have I silenced you?” he asked her. “Nothing to say, no names to call me? Curse me or kiss me, or call me a liar. Something.”

“If this is true, how is it that nobody knows?” 

“As if my father would let such a story tarnish his _precious_ legacy. The great Tywin Lannister, ruthlessly exploiting a poor old man’s madness? No. Non-disclosure agreements as far as the eye can see. The official story was that it was an argument that got out of hand, that I had been acting in self-defence. No-one believed it, of course, but better tarnish _my_ reputation that my father’s. Eddard Stark was the first one to find me, standing there with Aerys Targaryen’s blood all over my hands. He asked me what I’d done. What _I_’_d _done. Sure he was right, always, so sure he was right, that was Ned Stark. He judged me guilty the moment he saw me, even though he had to have heard at least rumours of what Aerys had become. Heard, and done nothing about it.” Jaime hauled himself to his feet, water trickling cold down his body. “By what right did _he_ judge _me_? By what right?” He shivered violently, losing his balance, reached out instinctively with his right hand, head spinning.

Brienne caught him before he could fall. She was strong enough to lift him bodily out of the tub, but so gentle his broken hand wasn’t even slightly jostled. “Mr Lannister!”

“Jaime,” he whispered. “My name is Jaime.”

The next thing he knew he was back in the hospital bed, with two nurses and a maester and Brienne all standing around him looking concerned.

“What on earth possessed you to try and take a bath unsupervised, Mr Lannister?” the maester asked. “If you’d lost consciousness, you could have drowned.”

“I wasn’t _unsupervised_,” Jaime told the man. “I had Brienne.” The wench was still in her soaked clothes. “Tyrion has filled my wardrobe with the products of a dozen mail-order catalogues, on the off-chance I’m able to manage clothes more complex than a mumu in the near future. Help yourself. We’re much of a size.”

“I couldn’t –”

“Stop dripping on my floor before you catch cold,” Jaime snapped. Brienne’s blue eyes went wide and wounded at his tone, but she went to the wardrobe and opened it. Jaime waved his left hand at the others. “And you lot, am I in immediate danger of dying? No? Then get out.” He managed to raise himself on his elbow. “I said _out_!”

Brienne turned, a T-shirt and tracksuit pants clutched to her chest as the nurses and the maester fled. “They’re only trying to do their jobs and help you.” 

“They’re only trying to avoid my brother suing them into oblivion for negligence,” Jaime corrected. “Change your clothes before you chill.” He rolled over. “There. My back’s turned. Your modesty is preserved, not that it needs to be.”

Fabric rustled. “I know what I look like.”

“Black and blue and yellow from head to foot, I’d guess.” The pillow was at an odd angle, and Jaime tugged at it with his useless left hand. “From arguing with the Brave Companions on my behalf. And that’s not what I meant. Fair should be fair.”

“I didn’t look,” Brienne said quickly.

“And did you wipe my arse with your eyes closed?”

“I didn’t – that was different.” Two footsteps, and she leaned over him, adjusting the pillow deftly. “You were ill, Jaime. I wasn’t ogling you.”

He rolled onto his back again. Brienne was still leaning over him. The T-shirt she’d chosen was a deep blue. “That’s a good colour for you. It matches your eyes.” _She really does have astonishing eyes._

She smoothed the pillow, and then his hair. “You should sleep.”

_She isn’t wrong_. His eyes were closing, despite his best efforts. “Are you going to leave, if I do?”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll stay. I have to call my dad, though, to let him know where I am.”

_Imagine having a father who gave a flying fuck where you were and what happened to you._ Jaime had seen science fiction films he could relate to more easily. “Tyrion bought me a phone. It’s in the bedside stand.”

He lay with his eyes closed and listened to Brienne talking to her father. _A police officer_, she’d said. _Tarth Watch._ They probably _were_ descended from the Tarths of Tarth, somehow, maybe from the Evenstars themselves. _Has anyone made a movie about the Evenstars_? There was some theory, Jaime vaguely remembered, that the Blue Knight had been a Tarth, had even been an Evenstar. _Brienne would like that. _He would have to tell her. _As soon as she gets off the phone_. The Blue Knight had probably looked like Brienne, all things considered. Tall, and strong, and fierce. _Gentle, though, like Brienne, if the stories are to be believed. _What had happened to her, in the end? He couldn’t remember. _A long and happy life_, he decided. _Adventures, and victories, and glory. _Jaime could see it, the Blue Knight brandishing her sword and riding headlong to the rescue of a threatened maiden, defeating her foes. _And riding home again._ A family to welcome her, to love her, to admire her. _Every hero deserves that, after all. _She dismounted, took off her helmet, her thin blonde hair tangled by the arming helm. _Jaime?_

“Welcome home,” he murmured. She took his hand, and Jaime let himself slip down into sleep.


	17. Brienne V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne thinks things over, and gets some fatherly advice.

Jaime roused enough to eat the dinner Tyrion Lannister had arranged to be delivered and then fell asleep again, quite suddenly. Brienne would have gone to lie down on the couch on the other side of the room, but when she drew her fingers from his, Jaime stirred in his sleep, frowning. _Hush, I’m here,_ she’d murmured, taking his one good hand in both hers again. _It’s alright, Jaime. Hush._

By morning, her back ached and her legs were cramped. She’d managed to catch a little sleep with her head resting on the bed beside Jaime’s hand, but only a few moments at a time, and her eyes were sore and scratchy. If her awkward position hadn’t been enough to keep her awake, her whirling thoughts would have. _Burn them all ... Have you worked with wildfire? … The knife went in so easily._

_He was seventeen. _Would she have done better, at seventeen? But that wasn’t fair to Jaime, either, because at seventeen Brienne had Selwyn Tarth to ask for advice, and she would have, in Jaime’s position. _But Jaime’s father … _Brienne couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of person Tywin Lannister had to be, to have done what Jaime accused him of.

But Jaime wore the world’s contempt, and not his father. Jaime, who had risked his own life to stop a madman. _Kingslayer. _The first thing everyone thought when they saw his face or read his name. _Me included._

_He was seventeen. _Her heart ached for that boy, caught in such an impossible situation. Ached too for the man he’d become, who’d embraced the reputation he couldn’t escape. _And still, despite that, saved my life, did what he could to protect me, even though it was my fault in the first place. _

If only she’d refused to fight him … refused, or yielded sooner. The truth she had to admit to herself was that she’d enjoyed it too much to call a halt, as wise as that would have been. She’d known that he was fast, and good, from their rehearsals with Sandor, but facing Jaime Lannister with a tourney sword in his hand had been a revelation. He had been pulling his blows, but even so, it had been all she could do to keep his blade at bay. _And I wanted to beat him_. He was good, and fast, and beautiful, and he’d called her a giant and a freak – whether in so many words or not, she hadn’t been able to remember. _Absurd. Grotesque. More a man than a woman, and not enough of either. _Loras Tyrell’s words, but they were the same, those pretty men who sneered and laughed.

_And now_ … Brienne had seen the damage to his hand, although she had done her best to keep the truth of it from Jaime. _Will he even be able to hold a sword, again? _It was monstrously cruel, what Hoat had done. It was one thing to hurt a man in a fight, or by accident – Brienne had broken bones in tourneys and in the course of her duties as a protection officer. But to maim a man deliberately … she could still hear Jaime screaming.

Could still hear him shouting _Sapphires_ as the kicks landed on her back and arms and she knew that the next might very well crack her skull, could still hear his howl of pain as the blows turned on him instead.

It was a relief when a nurse came in to wake him and take his temperature, although Brienne made sure to check her hospital ID before she let her near Jaime.

Jaime ignored the nurse putting the thermometer in his ear. “You stayed,” he said to Brienne, his green eyes puzzled.

“Didn’t you want me to?”

“No, I just meant …” He shrugged a little. “You stayed.”

“And we all thank her for making sure you didn’t try and drown yourself again,” the nurse said briskly. “Were you not listening at all when the maester told you how strong those painkillers are?”

“Not really,” Jaime said blithely, and both Brienne and the nurse snorted.

“Am I interrupting?” Tyrion Lannister asked from the doorway.

Brienne turned to see him carrying a tray of coffee cups. Behind him stood a middle-aged man. He was tall – although not as tall as Brienne – and thin, in a hard, wiry way. There was something hard about his face, too. If he’d come into any room when Brienne was working for Renly Baratheon, she would have kept a careful eye on him until he left.

“I’m just leaving,” Brienne said quickly.

“Not on my account, surely.” Tyrion came into the room and set the coffee cups down on the table. “We’ve enough breakfast for three, and Bronn is happy to go without.”

“I like the way you give away my breakfast,” the other man said, following Tyrion.

“The breakfast I paid for,” Tyrion said. “Which makes it _my_ breakfast, legally.” He handed Jaime a styrofoam cup and then offered one to Brienne. “Bronn takes his coffee black, I hope you don’t mind.”

Brienne took the cup, and then handed it to Bronn when Tyrion’s back was turned. Bronn gave her a wink and a grin. “Want half my bacon sarnie?”

“No, thank you,” Brienne said politely. “I need to get back to my father. And sort out my car insurance, and my phone.”

“Will you come back?” Jaime asked.

“Selwyn Tarth was fairly instrumental in saving your life, dear brother,” Tyrion said. “The very least he deserves is to spend a little time with his daughter. And as your lawyer, I can inform you that there are at least several hours of interviews with officers of the Watch in your immediate future, now you’re apparently up to it.” 

Jaime groaned. “I think I’m relapsing.”

“I’ll stay and hold your hand,” Tyrion said.

Brienne picked up her coat and slipped out as they began to argue. She was halfway down the hall before she remembered that she’d left her own clothes drying on the towel rack in the bathroom and was still wearing Jaime’s.

She didn’t stop. _I can mail them back to him_. Or perhaps, after time, she could bring herself to face him, and give him the apology he deserved from her. _I’m sorry I judged you so harshly. I’m sorry that my poor opinion of you tempted me to fight you. I’m sorry I caused you to be kidnapped, and crippled. _

Hunched into Sandor’s coat, she strode rapidly back to the motel. As she put the key into the door of her own room, her father’s door opened.

“What’s happened?” Selwyn asked after one glance.

“Oh, Dad.” Brienne’s eyes filled with tears. 

He wrapped her in his arms and drew her inside. “It’s alright, sweetling. It’s alright. Dad’s here.”

All of it came pouring out of her then, the way blood had poured from Jaime’s hand when Qyburn cut into it. Loathing Jaime, what Loras Tyrell had said, judging Jaime, Renly Baratheon, fighting Jaime out of pride and spite, the Brave Companions, her failure, Jaime shouting _sapphires_, Tyrion saying that their father had ignored his son’s plight, Jaime fainting in the bath, Tywin’s connection to the Brave Companions, understanding how wrong she’d been about Jaime …

“Fuck Loras Tyrell,” Selwyn said. “You saved his boyfriend’s life. He’s just jealous.”

Brienne gave a snuffling laugh. “No-one’s jealous of me.”

“You are a certified bona-fide hero,” her father said firmly. “Every man and woman I ever worked with is jealous of you.”

“A hero?” Brienne raised her head and stared at him. “It was _my fault_! It was _all_ my fault!” 

“Nonsense,” Selwyn said robustly. “You just said that gang knew who Lannister was, and were looking for him. They would have got him, sooner or later, and if you hadn’t been there, he’d be dead. I played the _retired officer_ card and got that lad Snow to give me the police reports, and I have no doubt you saved Lannister’s life.”

“Jaime,” Brienne corrected. “He hates _Lannister_.”

“He’s a handsome man, this _Jaime_.” Selwyn’s tone was carefully neutral. “I can see why you’d want to stay with him, last night.”

_Handsome_ was a poor cousin to Jaime Lannister. As battered and bruised as he was, wasted from his ordeal, he’d still looked half a god as Brienne lifted him from the tub and laid him on the bathroom floor. _But that was no part of me staying. _“He asked me to. He wanted me to be there.”

“Mmm.”

“He did!” Brienne protested.

“Sweetling, you cared for him and protected him. Of course he wants you there, now. And of course you want to make sure he’s alright. Just … don’t expect it to be more than it is.” Selwyn tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t want you to end up getting hurt.” 

It made cold good sense, and yet still, Brienne felt her stomach twist a little. _Of course. Of course it isn’t real. _“I know,” she said. _In his right mind, Jaime Lannister wouldn’t want to spend a moment longer than necessary with me_. “I know what it is, and what it isn’t, Dad.” _I own a mirror._

“What you need,” her father said, “is a proper breakfast. Northern style. Eggs, and bacon, and black pudding, and fried potatoes, and all the rest of it.” He patted Brienne on the shoulder. “Everything looks much better on a full stomach.”

Brienne smiled. “And what do you know about northern breakfasts? This is the first time you’ve been north of the Goldroad.”

“That I’ve told you,” Selwyn said. He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “Your old dad has to keep some of the secrets of his misspent youth from his impressionable young daughter. Now, go and wash your face, and then I’ll show you what Commander Snow assures me is the best café in Moat Cailin.”

Her father, as usual, was right: Brienne felt considerably less miserable after she’d worked her way through what the menu described as ‘Old Nan’s Heart-Attack Special’. She tackled the problems of her car and her phone and managed not to lose her temper once, collected the rental 4WD that her insurance would pay for until they finished processing her claim, and even managed a nap before dinner. A different café, this time, although Brienne suspected it had also been recommended by Jon Snow, given that it was doing a brisk business in takeaway for uniformed members of the Watch.

It was probably as much time as she’d spent with her father in one stretch in years, and Brienne told him what it was like working on a film set, and about her tourney victories at the Ice and Fire Re-enactment Faire, and about Winterfell and Castle Cerwyn.

She didn’t talk about Jaime Lannister, because her father was right. Jaime would get back to normal, and so would whatever his feelings were. _And so will mine_. She’d gotten over her silly crush on Renly Baratheon, after all, and Renly was kind and worthy as well as handsome. Jaime Lannister might not be the murderer Brienne had thought, but he was still rude and caustic and relentlessly flippant. He might not be the man the public version of the _Kingslayer_ story made him out to be, but he was still the man featured on the front page of_ The Gulltown Gossip _every couple of weeks with a different woman plastering herself to him – all of them beautiful, of course.

All of them the opposite of Brienne.

So she didn’t talk about Jaime Lannister, and she didn’t think about Jaime Lannister, and she certainly didn’t go back to the hospital to see Jaime Lannister after dinner. She brushed her teeth, changed into her pyjamas, and went to bed.

Where she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, definitely not thinking about Jaime Lannister. 


	18. Brienne VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne returns to work.

Brienne drove her father to the Moat Cailin airport on the day of his departure. She carried his suitcase in for him and hugged him goodbye when the boarding call came. This time, she really meant her promise to visit more often.

_And now, back to work_. She trudged back across the parking lot, not thinking about the last time she’d been here, to pick up infuriating, beautiful, charming, irritating Jaime Lannister. Her key was in her hand when a voice behind her said “Miss Tarth?”

A voice she didn’t know: light, even, smooth. Brienne turned to see a portly man, thoroughly encased in padded jacket and pants, extending his hand to her. “Yes?”

“I’m Varys,” the man said. “A friend of Mr Lannister. Mr _Jaime _Lannister. I was wondering if you could tell me how he’s doing?”

Brienne didn’t take the offered hand. “I would think as his friend you could ask him yourself.”

Varys tittered. “I’d hate to disturb him. I heard that he was very badly hurt. That he might never work again.”

“Really?” Brienne narrowed her eyes. “Who did you hear that from?”

“A little bird told me. Is it true?”

His small shrewd eyes searched hers. Brienne made her face blank and stupid. “I’m not his doctor, or privy to his medical reports. I don’t know anything about it, at all.”

“If you _did_ learn something …” Varys produced a card. “It could be very lucrative. Telling the right people.”

Brienne kept her hands firmly in her pockets. “I guess I just wouldn’t know who the right people would be, Mr Varys.”

“Just Varys,” he corrected. “And I would be the right people, Miss Tarth.”

“I just don’t know about that,” Brienne said. “It seems like a decision for Jaime. Since you’re his _friend_.”

“You’re very defensive,” Varys said. “I take it I’m right?”

His hand was still outstretched, card between his gloved fingers, and Brienne took his wrist and bent it and turned him around to shove him up against her car. “I’m a woman accosted by a man I don’t know. I’m reasonably certain that if I broke your arm right now –”

“Please don’t,” Varys said. “I truly dislike pain.”

“If I broke your arm right now, I’d have a good argument for self-defence. So let’s have a good faith conversation, alright? Stay away from me. Stay away from Jaime Lannister. Tell Petyr Baelish that the next employee of his I find sniffing about Jaime will take his ears home in his hat. Or hers. Are we quite clear, Mr Varys?”

Varys nodded. When Brienne released him, he produced a handkerchief and mopped his face. “I do abhor violence.”

“_Stay away_ from Jaime Lannister, and you won’t need to experience it.”

Brienne watched Varys all the way across the parking lot to his car, watched him get in, watched him drive away, before she unlocked her rental and climbed inside.

It was a Meereenese import, which meant that even with the seat pushed back at the maximum Brienne’s knees knocked against the steering wheel. She started the engine, cranked up the heat, and took out her phone. Tyrion’s card was in her wallet, and she punched in the number, hesitated, and chose _send text _instead of_ call. _

_This is Brienne Tarth. Someone called Mr Varys just offered me money for information about your brother. _

The phone buzzed as she was pulling out, so she ignored it. Her few possessions were in the boot, she was checked out of the motel, and Davos Seaworth was expecting her today.

Brienne turned on to the Kingsroad and headed north.

Her phone buzzed again, and then again. And then again. And again. Brienne sighed, found somewhere to pull onto the shoulder safely, turned on her hazard blinkers, and took it out. _Eight unread messages. _

One from Tyrion, answering hers: _Thank you. I hope you are recovering well. Please continue to feel free to call on me for anything you need._

Seven from another number, all sent within the last – Brienne checked her watch – thirty minutes.

_It’s Jaime. Did you fall in a large hole?_

_Trpped under furnitre? _

_Srsly r u alright_

_Brienne answer_

_I’m holding yr clothes hstage_

_Brinne?_

_Actually I’m fucking worried now, r u ok?_

_I’m fine_, she typed. _Was driving. _Hesitated, and then added, _I hope you’re feeling better. _

_Don’t txt n drive_ came the immediate answer.

Brienne rolled her eyes. _Wasn’t. Hence no answer._

_Were r u?_

_Kingsroad. Due back at work. Do you want me to pack up your trailer or would you prefer someone else to do it? _

A long pause, then, before _Sure. Thanks._

Brienne put her phone away, and headed on to Winterfell.

The set was a beehive of activity when she arrived. _No, not a beehive_, Brienne realised, watching people running back and forth. There was no sense of purpose, however frantic: people were shouting, working at cross-purposes, swearing at each other.

_An anthill. _

_One that’s just had boiling water poured on it._

She found Davos Seaworth in the midst of it, doing his best to bring order out of chaos. “Brienne! Gods be good, you look like you’ve fought the Long Night single-handed.”

“It looks worse than it is,” Brienne said.

Davos grinned. “Aye, I’ve said that more than once myself, and it’s always been a lie. You don’t need to be back yet, if you’re not up for it.”

“I’m fine,” Brienne said firmly. She looked around them. “What’s going on?”

“Buggered if I know, lass. Her Ladyship woke up this morning with a bee in her rose-covered bonnet, it seems. New orders for everyone, new shooting order, we’re going to have eighty extras here tomorrow for the Great Hall scenes and four of my people are picking up talent from the airport.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Bless you,” Davos said fervently. “Find Connington, and tell him Ms Tyrell needs the council room set as well as the Great Hall lit for tomorrow morning for second unit, and then find out how long the writers are going to be with tomorrow’s sides and let me know, can you do that for me?”

“Of course.”

Rod Connington was in the Great Hall, shouting at people about fill ratios and ambient light. He stopped yelling when he saw Brienne, though, his eyes going wide. “Fuck me. I heard you got hurt, but …”

“It looks worse than it is,” Brienne said again.

Connington put his hand on her shoulder. “I can’t believe Lannister put you in that position. I mean, you’re an assistant, not some kind of bodyguard. Why don’t you sit down for a while?”

“I don’t have time,” Brienne said. “Davos says you need to light the council room set for tomorrow as well.”

Connington abruptly forgot any concern about Brienne’s bruises and strode off, yelling for his best boy.

The writers had been housed inside the Great Keep itself, in one of the rooms on the first floor that was too long and narrow to be used as a set. Brienne took off her coat as she made her way through the narrow corridors, grateful to Winterfell’s ancient builders for the respite from the cold. Her knock on the thick oaken door brought no response, so she pushed it open and leaned through.

Brienne had never needed to come here before, so she had no idea if the chaos before her was normal, but it certainly was considerable. Paper littered the floor, the desks, and the long table at the end of the room. Four men and one woman hunched over keyboards, typing furiously, and the wastepaper baskets were overflowing with crumpled pages, coffee cups and enough cans of Red Stallion to account for fully half of Bracken Brewery’s monthly profit.

She cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”

“Just put it on the table,” the woman said without looking around. “Willas, are you done with –”

“Nearly, nearly.” It was a young man with brown hair and a brace on his leg who answered. The brace and the name combined told Brienne he was Willas Tyrell, Olenna’s grandson. “But can you look at the party scene for me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that scene.” A much older man with a mass of white hair and a beard down to his chest turned and glared at Willas. “It’s historically accurate.”

Willas laughed. “Historically accurate? This whole film is based on myths and legends. And if you think my grandmother is going to film a scene that has a woman saying rape made her strong, you’re crazier than the Mad King.”

“There’s no proof that wasn’t slander.”

“Leyton … there’s no proof of _anything_, that’s most of the point I’m trying to make. Alys, will you please look at the scene and try to fix the dialogue? The Kraken’s, as well as the Grey Girl’s, please. And –” He turned to look at Brienne and his eyes widened. “You’re not catering.”

“No, sorry, but I can find out what’s keeping them.”

“If you’re not catering, get out,” one of the men who hadn’t yet spoken said without looking around. “Her Ladyship wants these pages tonight for the actors to learn them and there’s a fucking lot.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Brienne said politely. “Davos sent me to find out how much longer you’ll be?”

The man swung around. “How long is a piece of string? How much –”

“Colin, she’s doing her job,” Willas said. He smiled at Brienne. “I’m guessing you’re Brienne Tarth, given your height, and your bruises. Forgive us our lapses in manners. My grandmother is a hard taskmaster and she has the Iron Bank to appease.”

“The Iron Bank?” Brienne frowned. It was common knowledge that the Iron Bank was backing _Oathkeeper_, but why would they need appeasing? “Why?”

“Not happy with the recasting. I’m not sure about the specifics, but grandmother had a call from Tycho Nestoris this morning and her next call was to me telling me to have the rewrites on the three biggest scenes in the movie ready to shoot tomorrow. Proof the film will work, or something.” He shrugged. “I just type. Grandmother makes the films.”

“Is there something I can do to help? Besides finding catering?” 

“Are you a writer?” Colin asked.

“No, but I do know quite a lot about the legend of the Long Night.”

Leyton turned to glare at her. “I have a Maester’s Degree from Oldtown University in post-Targaryen history. I hardly think you have anything to add.” 

“I’ll find catering,” Brienne said, and ducked out of the room.


	19. Jaime XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime resents being misunderstood. Tyrion loses patience.

Jaime raised his phone again despite the fact there’d been no chime for either call or text. He read Brienne’s last message again. _Kingsroad. Due back at work. Do you want me to pack up your trailer or would you prefer someone else to do it? _

She hadn’t even dropped by the hospital to let him know she was leaving. For a few fucking hours, he’d let himself believe that Brienne had heard and believed the confession that had poured out of him, that she’d _seen_ him, the way no-one but Tyrion ever had, that she understood him the way he understood her. 

_Well, that was bullshit_. The only reason he had her phone number was that she’d texted Tyrion and Jaime had wrestled the phone from him. _That’s how much of a flying fuck she gives._

Tyrion looked up from his laptop. “Just text her.”

“Who?” Jaime said as innocently as he could.

“Brienne Tarth, the woman you’re pining over.”

“I’m not _pining_.” Jaime scowled at him. “I just ...”

“Jaime, when she didn’t come back to the hospital I had to talk you down from calling the Watch and insisting on a welfare check, and I only managed that by getting Varys to confirm she was safely in her motel room for you. And you’ve been sulking ever since.” He raised his eyebrows. “She seems like a very nice person, if a bit reserved, her background check is clean and she passed the Varys test with flying colours –”

“You really shouldn’t have done that –”

“It was necessary to know,” Tyrion said firmly. “My point is, you clearly miss her. She’s certainly been a better friend to you than many people ever get, and I’m predisposed to think well of anyone who saves my brother’s life. Call her, or text her.”

“She’d text _me_ if she wanted to hear from me.”

“Jaime, I know it’s a new experience for you to not to be relentlessly pursued, but take it from me. Sometimes it’s useful to take the initiative. Here, give me your phone.”

Jaime held it protectively against his chest. “Why?”

“So I can save you from yourself.” He snapped his fingers. “Phone, dear brother. I have an opening argument to write, and you’re brooding too loudly for me to be able to hear myself think.”

Reluctantly, Jaime handed it over. “Opening argument for what?”

“Mance Rayder is suing his recording label.” Tyrion’s thumbs moved quickly over the keypad of Jaime’s phone. “Or, more correctly, his _former_ recording label, Shadow Tower, which he was with before he signed with Freefolk. There’s rather a large number of dragons at stake for him, and consequently, a smaller but still substantial number of dragons at stake for me. There.” He handed the phone back.

“I’ll give you notes if you want to practice,” Jaime offered. “Like we used to.” He looked at the screen of his phone. Beneath his last _Sure. Thanks_, Tyrion had written _How is the film going? I miss you. _He’d also sent it without asking Jaime’s permission. _Well, it could be worse_. Jaime had once picked up his brother’s phone by mistake at a bar and accidentally seen a sext from Shae that had been difficult to bleach from his mind, no matter how hard he’d tried. 

“I’ll take you up on that. If you stop brooding long enough to let me finish. Or at least brood a little more quietly.”

“I’m not brooding.” Jaime tapped the screen gently. _There are weird dead zones at Winterfell_, he reminded himself. _She’s probably in one of those. Or in the middle of something._

“You’ve been checking that phone every five minutes since the day before yesterday, you look disappointed every time you receive a message and it isn’t from your giant –”

“Her name is Brienne,” Jaime corrected quickly.

“And you are moping, brother mine, which I know because I have known you my entire life and I know how you look when you miss out on a part you want or don’t get a nomination for an award you think you deserve. What did you _say_ to her to send her running?”

“Nothing!” _Everything. _All the truth that had been trapped behind his teeth by non-disclosure agreements and anger and pride. _And Seven Hells, if Tyrion finds out I broke a contract …_ But Brienne would never spill his secrets. Not for money, not for anything. Jaime didn’t know whether his confession had turned her cold again, or if it hadn’t changed her opinion of him at all and her kindness had only ever been a pretence, but he knew Brienne Tarth well enough to know that she was not a woman who’d betray a trust. “Nothing. She just … disappeared.” 

The faint squawk of a raven drew his attention back to his phone. _Chaos_, Brienne had written. _No time, now. More later. _

Jaime hesitated, then typed _Call when you’re free? _He held his breath, and let it out when she sent back a thumbs up emoji. _She’s been busy. _That was all. Seven Hells, Jaime knew what filming was like. _Of course_ Brienne had been busy.

“And now you’re no longer moping,” Tyrion said, although how he could tell that without looking up from his laptop Jaime had no idea. “Thank your little brother.” 

Jaime smiled. “Thank you, little brother.”

“Honestly, if you’d suggested to me ten years ago that we’d end up with _me_ helping _you_ to get dates, I’d –”

“Oh, no, it’s not – that’s not what it is,” Jaime said quickly. “It’s just – she fights in tourneys. I mean, it’s the sort of thing you make friends over, isn’t it?”

“It’s even sadder that you need me to arrange playdates,” Tyrion said dryly. “Although I suppose since you’ve spent most of your life in the orbit of sweet Cersei, the cold-rolled bitch, you’ve never had to practice your interpersonal skills on people you hadn’t known since birth.”

“I have friends,” Jaime protested. “There’s … Addam.”

“Also your cousin.”

“Peck.”

“Peck works for you. He’s your friend the way Bronn’s mine.”

“It’s not because of Cersei. I’ve been busy. I mean, I’m filming most of the year, and on location for a lot of that, and –”

“Stop making excuses for her,” Tyrion said sharply. “Remember what happened to Melara Hetherspoon?”

“That wasn’t –”

“If you still think our kind cousin had nothing to do with those photographs being taken or being circulated at her school, there may be no hope for you.”

“Melara and I didn’t even really date,” Jaime protested. “I mean, we were fourteen. I think we held hands at a monsters-and-maidens match against Kayce or somewhere like that. Anyway, you were, what, six? You didn’t even know –”

“I had Varys look into it when he started working for me,” Tyrion said. “Well, into Cersei generally, mostly because when Cersei Lannister is in your life, however peripherally, it’s wise to have ammunition. Melara was quite forthcoming about how Cersei had befriended her after she’d started being friends with you. About the party Cersei invited her to, about how there was vodka and strongwine and Redwyne Special despite them all being under-age. About how little she remembered, including –”

Jaime tasted bile at the back of his throat. “Don’t.” He hadn’t looked at the pictures slipped into everyone’s lockers and stapled to the bulletin boards, except for one glance. Melara had been gone from school a day later, bound for a stricter education under the guidance of the Silent Sisters. _How little she remembered …_ Jaime wasn’t much of a drinker, but he’d been to enough industry parties to have witnessed the effect of too much alcohol on adults. _Let alone an inexperienced teenager_. 

_Myrcella will be that age in a few years_.

“If you care, Cersei didn’t actually have her raped,” Tyrion said clinically.

“She wouldn’t – she didn’t. Not …” Jaime shook his head. 

“She absolutely would, and you know it. You know what she is, Jaime, as much as I do.”

“You’ve always seen her as –”

“As what she is,” Tyrion said. “I was perhaps the only person in Westeros not surprised that she was willing to trade her son’s freedom – and his soul – to make sure she inherited her husband’s wealth.”

“Joffrey did what he did because he is what he is,” Jaime said.

“Joffrey did what he did because he is what his mother made him,” Tyrion countered. “And his father, and I don’t mean you. Honestly, it’s amazing that Myrcella and Tommen are relatively normal, and I do give myself quite a lot of credit for that. Jaime. I don’t pretend to understand what you ever saw in her, apart from your own reflection, but I truly hoped that after what happened last year you would at least be able to _see_ her.” He put his laptop aside and hopped down from his chair, coming to put his hand over Jaime’s. “She got rid of Melara, she’s gotten rid of _anyone_ who might have become too close to you, one way or another, or made sure they didn’t get close in the first place –”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Yes, you do,” Tyrion said. “You just don’t want to. My earliest memory is Cersei pinching me until her nails drew blood, and how angry you were with her over it.” He squeezed Jaime’s fingers. “You love her, I know. But you know what she is. There’s a reason you ended things with her when Robert died, Jaime.”

“That was an accident –”

“She filled and refilled his glass and put the car keys in his hand, _that_ part was no accident.” With a final pat of Jaime’s hand, Tyrion went back to his seat. “Personally, I think you’d benefit from more than a few years of therapy, but I’ll settle for you never going back to her, and possibly trying to date a woman you’re not related to. It’s not like you’d find it difficult to get offers.”

Tyrion was right about that, Jaime knew. He’d been faithful to Cersei by choice, not by necessity, and many of the women he’d escorted to premieres and awards ceremonies for the benefit of the paparazzi had made it clear they’d be open to more than that. Sometimes it had been hard to say no, especially when Cersei had decided she was angry with him for some failure or other and was refusing to see him. But he _had_ said no, and Cersei always relented once he’d grovelled enough to earn her forgiveness. _And I always grovelled. _Because he loved her, and she loved him, and they were meant to be together, just as she always said …

“Tyrion. What happened to Melara Hetherspoon? Is she … how is she?”

“She has two degrees from the Citadel, is working on a third, and is quite happily married to a bespectacled biochemist.”

Jaime sighed with relief. “Good.”

“Yes.” Tyrion typed a little more. “Would you describe Mance Rayder as _world-renowned_ or _illustrious_?”

“Neither. No-one’s heard of him outside of Westeros and no-one less _illustrious_ could possibly be found.” _The man looks and lives like a begging brother, only not so chaste. _“He’s certainly famous enough. Will that do?”

Tyrion shook his head. “Fame is the product of marketing, and Shadow Tower has a good argument that their dragons purchased it for Mance. I need to convince the judge that _his_ talent earned _them_ money, not that _their_ money bought _his_ career.”

“Seven Hells, just play his last CD! I defy any judge to hear _The Long Night_ without the hair on the back of their neck standing up.”

“So he’s good?”

Jaime stared at his brother. “How can you not know that?”

Tyrion chuckled. “That old folk music isn’t to my taste, you know that. I prefer something with a little more muscle, like Strong Belwas or Euron Greyjoy. Or Big Bucket Wull.” 

Jaime held out his hand. “Give me that. You’re connected to the weirnet, right?” Tyrion nodded, handing his laptop over, and Jaime managed to open the 3ER search program left-handed. He pecked away at the keyboard for a moment.

“Oh, give it back,” Tyrion said, taking it from his hands. “Just tell me what to type.”

“Mance Rayder, The Long Night, Isle of Faces.”

Tyrion typed. “That’s the festival? Here, is this it?” He turned the screen, and Jaime peered, and nodded. Tyrion clicked on the link.

It wasn’t an official video: someone had filmed it on their phone, and it was blurry and shaky as a result. It was still possible to recognise Mance Rayder, though, with his distinctive long grey hair and beard still mostly brown both in sharp contrast to the huge ghost-white weirwood tree he stood in front of. If there’d been any confusion, the sound of the audience chanting _the Mance, the Mance, the Mance, the Mance!_ would have dispelled it. “_I have a new one for you tonight_,” Mance said as they quietened, and there was no mistaking his voice, northern as northern could be, even through the inadequate speakers of Tyrion’s laptop. “_It’s a warm night, tonight, but this song is about a cold night_.”

“I’ll skip ahead,” Tyrion said.

Jaime shook his head. “Patience, little brother. He’s a bard. The story is part of the song.”

“_A cold night that lasted a generation. Kings froze in their castles and smallfolk froze in their huts. Children were born and lived and died in darkness. You know the night I’m talking about.” _Cries of ‘the long night’ went up in the audience, and Mance nodded. “_Aye_, _the long night. The long, cold night when the sun a stranger and spring was a dream. Until a hero came. The last hero._”

Tyrion sighed. “And you wonder why I –” 

“Hush,” Jaime said, as Mance ran his fingers over the strings of his guitar and leaned into the microphone.

“_I know a cold as cold as it gets, I know a dark that’s darker than cold._” There was nothing particularly remarkable about Mance Rayder’s voice by objective standards, but the man used it like an actor, every nuance and shift bleeding emotion. “_Further than north I search for his face, for the one who’d lay all of our future to waste. Turned our hope into ash and our children to ice. I am the one who stands on the wall. I am the one who stands on the wall. I know a cold as cold as it gets …_”

“Alright,” Tyrion said quietly. “He has talent, for a folk singer.” 

“Listen to the end,” Jaime said.

Mance Rayder was lost in his song, now, audience forgotten, the way Jaime had lost himself in a character on stage or before the cameras only once or twice in his life. “_I dream in my sleep, I dream in my days, of some sunny clearing not so far away … where up in a tree a nightingale sings, and you and I’ll meet down below. You and I’ll meet down below._” He drew the notes out, the echo of a nightingale’s call slowing into sadness, and then the aching hope in his voice hardened into steely determination. “_I know a_ _dark as dark as it gets, I fight a war I may never see won. I’ll fight and I’ll live and I’ll never regret anything that I’ve done. Anything that I’ve done._”

The applause was thunderous. Tyrion tapped the keyboard and the sound cut out. “I take your point. He almost had me believing the Last Hero was real.”

Jaime smiled. “You need to broaden your musical horizons.” 

“I’ll make you a deal,” Tyrion said. “You can take me to one of your folk music concerts full of lutes and pipes and the Seven only know what else, if you’ll agree to ask one woman you’re not related to by blood to have dinner with you before the end of the month.”

Jaime raised his right hand in its cast. “One of the nurses or maesters, perhaps?”

“Some of them are very pretty, and all of them are very clever. Would it be a hardship, to have dinner with a pretty, clever woman?” Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “And you may well be discharged before then, they tell me. Come now, big brother. You’ve been trying to drag me to one of your _historical cultural events_ for most of our lives. Here’s your chance.”

Jaime sighed. “Fine. Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just as I can’t make Tysha work in a modern context, I can’t make murdering Melara work, either. Also I think that at least in some AUs she should get to have a nice life #justiceforMelara  
I have stolen and adapted the lyrics for “the Long Night” from Patty Griffin’s “Cold as it gets” which you can find here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8Cq2kMB7_Y


	20. Brienne VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late night, a sportscast, and a phone conversation.

It might be the first film Brienne had ever worked on, but even she could tell there was something badly wrong on the set of _Oathkeeper. _When filming for the day finally finished, well into the hour of the wolf, Hyle Hunt insisted on walking her back to her trailer, as if she might meet some deadly danger over the fifty yards. Brienne was too tired to argue. She wasn’t too tired to firmly rebuff his attempt to invite himself in, though.

The door to the trailer was unlocked. When Brienne stumbled inside, she found Ygritte and Jon Snow on the couch. Ygritte was fast asleep, sprawled over her boyfriend, who was watching television with the sound off. Ghost was occupying the rest of the couch.

“Sorry,” Brienne mouthed, preparing to beat a hasty retreat to her own bedroom.

“Don’t worry about keeping your voice down,” Snow said in a normal voice. “The Horn of Joramun wouldn’t wake Ygritte once she’s out.”

“I thought – the TV –”

“It’s the Ice Wall Games, and I just can’t stand listening to those Southron jackanapes trying to comment on snow sports.” He snorted. “I got as far as someone calling Tormund Giantsbane ‘Tormund Giantsbabe’ before my patience was exhausted.”

Brienne was immediately interested despite her exhaustion. “Oh, Tormund’s competing this year?”

Snow slipped his arm under Ygritte’s legs and hauled her further into his lap, clearing space on the couch. “Ghost. Down. He’s four to nothing so far. Looks like he’ll set a new record before the end of the night.”

“Really?” Brienne squeezed herself into the free space on the couch as Ghost vacated it and sprawled beside the heater instead, diffusing the faint aroma of clean dog. “Isn’t that Abel’s record? Or did I miss someone breaking it?”

“No, it’s Abel’s record, alright.” Snow reached down beside the couch and produced a half-full bag of Dragon Peppers. He took a handful and offered the bag to Brienne. “Stood for fifty years.”

Brienne took a few of the spicy snacks. “I would have liked to have seen him climb.”

“So would we all,” Snow said. “North of the Ice Wall they say he was Bael come again.”

_Bael_. A figure as shrouded in myth and legend as the Last Hero, or the White Wolf. Brienne shot Snow a sideways glance, trying to judge whether he was serious. “Like … reborn?”

He shrugged. “Or echoed. They have strange ways, in the heart of winter, and their histories may not repeat, but they seem to rhyme. Here he comes again.”

Brienne switched her attention back to the screen. Tormund Giantsbane was striding towards the base of the Ice Wall, snow flecking his bright ginger hair and beard with white. As cold as it was in Winterfell, Brienne knew it would be ten times colder at the Wall, but Giantsbane seemed immune to the chill. He gazed up at the Ice Wall, and the camera turned and panned up to show it from his perspective: a massive sheet of ice, its top shrouded in clouds. 

His mouth opened, and he bellowed something, and then sprinted forward, launching himself against the Wall. With claws strapped to his feet and held in his hands, he surged upwards, sending splinters of ice flying with each swing of his arms. At the side of the screen, a green clock ran upwards, showing how many seconds had passed since Tormund had started his climb and beside it, a red _thirty-nine minutes, seventeen seconds_ showed Abel’s longstanding record.

“Come on, Tormund,” Snow murmured. He poked Ygritte’s shoulder and said loudly, “Wake up! Tormund is climbing.” Ygritte muttered something that sounded a lot like _fuck off_ and turned her face into Snow’s shoulder, and he poked her again. “He’s going to set the record. You’ll be sorry if you don’t see it.”

Ygritte turned and opened one eye. “He’s got another half-an-hour to go. Tell me when he’s close.”

“You don’t want to support your cousin?”

Ygritte snorted. “As if he can feel me watching through the television set. You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

On the screen, Tormund’s left hand slipped, and Brienne gasped. “Commander Snow … the sound?”

“On one condition,” Snow said, raising the remote.

“Which is?”

“When I’m acting in my capacity as Ygritte’s boyfriend, I’m _Jon_, not Commander Snow.” He pressed a button.

“_And we are seeing history being made here tonight, sers and ladies,_” the smooth announcer’s voice said breathlessly. “_Tormund Giantsbabe is already seven seconds ahead of Abel’s record and he’s only a few moments into his climb. Of course we’ve seen climbers set early records before and fall short when they flag at the top of the Wall, but Tormund is know as a strong finisher. He’s certainly not slowing now._”

“Did you get those play swords back to Mr Lannister?” Snow asked.

Brienne started. “Yes.” She’d left them in his hospital room, barely remembered in the turmoil she’d felt that morning. _The Kingslayer is the hero of that story, not that anyone remembers now … Burn them all. Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds. Let the Usurper be king of the ashes, let him rule over cooked meat and charred bones. … By what right did _he_ judge _me_? _

She’d said she’d call him, but the time … Brienne took out her phone and typed. _Too late to call?_

The answer came immediately. _No. Jst watching the Icewll Games. _

Brienne smiled. _Me too. Tormund is going to take the record. _

_And bet Abel? No chance. _

_I think he will._

_Bet you dnner he doesn’t. _

_And if he does? What do I win? _

_I pay for dinner._

“_He’s now a whole eighteen seconds ahead of Abel’s time,”_ the announcer said. “_He’s coming up on the halfway mark now and he’s not slowing down._” The screen split in two, the right half showing Tormund, the left a grainy image that was presumably Abel. Tormund was surging upwards, mighty arms sinking his grips deep into the ice with every swing of his arms; Abel seemed to be smaller, slighter, snaking upwards with an efficient economy of motion.

_I pick the restaurant,_ Brienne sent. _Either way_.

_Done _came back on the instant.

“Come on, Tormund,” Snow muttered. He nudged Ygritte again.

“M’awake,” she said without opening her eyes.

Brienne’s phone buzzed, _J Lannister_ flashing on the screen. She pressed _accept. _“Hi,” she said quietly. “I’m just watching the games with Ygritte. And her boyfriend.”

“He’s not going to get the record,” Jaime said confidently. “Too heavy.”

“Do you climb?”

Jaime chuckled. “Even I’m not that reckless. Do you?”

“Never been north of the Neck before, so no. I’ve never even seen the Ice Wall, except on TV.”

“You should go, at least once. It’s pretty spectacular. Or so Tyrion told me. He’s slowing.”

Brienne checked the clock ticking upward on the screen. “He’s not.” 

“He will. So what’s happening with the film?”

“Ms Tyrell decided she had to get the big feast scene, the war council, and Goldenhand’s trial all shot yesterday and today. It’s been crazy.”

“Finance troubles,” Jaime said.

“Maybe. I did hear it was something about the Iron Bank –” Brienne gasped as Tormund slipped, slid backwards a yard or two, and caught himself. On the other side of the screen, the grainy figure of Abel was now ahead. “Mother’s mercy, I thought he was going to fall.”

“Not him,” Ygritte said sleepily. She was sitting up a bit more now, watching.

“Most falls happen in training,” Jon said. “Come on, Tormund, don’t slow down!”

“It’s definitely finance troubles,” Jaime said over the phone. “The Iron Bank is threatening to pull their backing for some reason and the Queen of Thorns is hurrying to show them something that will knock their socks off. How were the scenes? How’s Martell?”

“I wasn’t on set.” Tormund was definitely flagging now. _At least I’ll be able to pick somewhere I can afford_. 

“You didn’t try to sneak in?” Jaime sounded amused. “The show-business bug hasn’t bitten you yet, I see.”

“I had to find another seventeen sets of winter gear for talent who weren’t supposed to be arriving until next week. And then I spent most of the day helping Gilly with craft services, she’s swamped. And running errands.”

“Find an errand to run in the screening trailer tomorrow,” Jaime suggested. “Give me a full report.”

“I’m not your spy!”

“Oh, go on,” he wheedled. “Tell me that Oberyn Martell is making a hash of my role and salve my wounded ego.”

Brienne snorted. “I’m not sure your ego is capable of being wounded.”

“I’m extremely sensitive, ask anyone who’s never met me,” Jaime said cheerfully. “For example, I went into a complete decline when you decided to give me the cold shoulder. Was it something I said?”

“No –”

“_Everything_ I said?”

“I thought you might like to be spared the sight of me, given the past few weeks, that’s all.”

“Well, you were quite wrong, wench. I missed your stubborn freckled face, although I’ll see it when you buy me dinner on your next day off. Tormund’s four seconds behind, now. What restaurant are you going to take me to?”

“I’ll think of something.” Brienne managed to keep her voice even, her tone casual, despite the way his words had made her stomach swoop. _I missed your stubborn freckled face._ Somehow, it didn’t feel like an insult. Brienne chided herself. _It’s like Dad said. Don’t make more of it than it is. _“So you’re being discharged?”

“I’m allowed day-release. Not that I’ve been motivated to take advantage of it, in this gods-forsaken frozen hellscape. I’m sure if Tyrion hadn’t just endowed a whole new paediatrics wing they’d have kicked me out to fend for myself by now.”

“Rich as a Lannister,” Brienne said absently, eyes on the screen. Tormund was less than thirty yards from the top and he was picking up speed, impossible as that seemed.

“Come on Tormund,” Jon urged quietly.

Ygritte was less restrained. “Move your bloody arse you ginger cunt!” she screamed, leaping to her feet. “Come the fuck on! Get up there!”

“What happened to him not being able to hear you through the television set?” Jon asked, smiling, and Ygritte kicked him in the shins.

“Rich as an entertainment lawyer, anyway,” Jaime said. “I take it from the shouting I can hear in the background that Ygritte is a fan of Tormund Giantsmember?”

“Cousin,” Brienne said. Tormund was eight seconds behind the record – seven – ice splintered as every mighty swing of his arms drove his climbing hooks into the Wall and each climbing step clawed a new foothold. “You’ll be buying dinner.”

“Never,” Jaime said confidently. “He won’t close the gap this late.”

“Fucking climb you fucking fucker!” Ygritte shouted, loud enough to wake every single person sleeping in the trailers. “Fucking climb! _Climb! _CLIMB!”

Four seconds behind the record, then three. Ygritte jumped up and down hard enough to make the trailer rock, hollering encouragement. Jon was on his feet as well, although quieter in his barracking. Tormund powered upwards, sending ice chips flying, closing on the top –

“_And Tormund Giantsbabe has _just_ missed out on the record by one fifth of a second_,” the announcer said. 

“That should fucking count!” Ygritte said. “You fucking cunts, that should fucking count!”

“Ha!” Jaime crowed over the phone as on the screen, Tormund raised his arms in triumph. “Told you.”

Losing the bet didn’t sting as much as Brienne might have expected. “It was close.”

“He had his team talking to him over his earpiece to let him know when to slow down.”

Brienne gaped. The huge red-headed man on the screen certainly didn’t seem disappointed with his performance. “Why would he slow down?”

“He’s from north of the Wall,” Jaime said, as if it was the most obvious reason in the world. “Far north. _Really_ north, like all the best climbers.”

“So?”

“No-one north of the Wall is going to break Abel’s record. He was Bael-come-again, the King-Beyond-the-Wall. That record will stand until there’s another King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

Ygritte turned the television off, scowling. “They should give it to him, the fucking kneelers.” 

“Ygritte seems to disagree with you,” Brienne said into the phone as her trailer-mate stomped off to her bedroom, Jon trailing behind. _Maybe they’ll just go straight to sleep_. “And she’s _from_ beyond the Wall, she’d know.”

“Not if she’s not a climber herself,” Jaime countered.

From behind Ygritte’s closed door, Brienne could hear bedsprings begin to speak. She sighed, and began to pull on her coat again, transferring the phone from one hand to the other to keep it at her ear. “You’re not a climber, you said that. So how do you know?”

“When we filmed _The Deserter_, the B-plot involved Freefolk climbing the wall. I got to know them.”

“_The Deserter_?” Brienne slipped out of the trailer. The cold took her breath like a rogue wave in the face and she had to stop for a moment. 

“Yeah, Jeor Mormont and Waymar Royce, remember? Waymar played a deserter from the Night’s Watch, hence the title, Jeor was the Lord Commander.” He chuckled. “I, of course, was the ice-hearted black brother looking for an opportunity to stab my Lord Commander in the back, until Waymar stopped me and proved himself to Jeor.”

Brienne began walking, hoping to stay warm. “I don’t think I saw it.”

“Of course you did, everyone saw it.” Jaime cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice was deeper, rougher, somehow _older_. “Men, what I want from each and every one of you is a hard-target search of every ware-house, hen-house, dog-house and out-house in the area.”

“Oh, is that what that’s from?” Brienne’s teeth wanted to chatter and she had to clench her jaw. “I’ve seen the memes.”

Jaime snorted. “The Lord Commander sort of forgot about wanting a hard target search? Yeah. Me too. Are your teeth chattering? It sounds like your teeth are chattering.”

“I’m outside.”

“Well that seems remarkably stupid.”

“Ygritte deserves some privacy.”

He chuckled. “Her boyfriend, I see. Have you packed up my trailer yet?”

“No, I’m sorry, I haven’t had –”

“Relax, wench. I presume the heating still works? Let yourself in and turn it on.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Mind you not freezing to death? No, wench, I don’t mind.”

She started towards his trailer. “My name is –”

“Brienne.” Jaime’s voice made her name musical. “Brienne Tarth of Tarth. _Are_ you one of the Tarths of Tarth, do you know?”

“Probably.” Brienne unlocked the door, hurried inside, and turned the heating up to full. “I mean, mostly we all are, to some degree.” She stood directly over the heating vent, letting the blast of warm air billow under the edge of the coat.

“You haven’t checked?”

Brienne snorted. “What, to find out if I’m secretly the Evenstar’s heir? It’s about five hundred years too late for that to matter.”

“Is the heater working?”

“Yes.” It was warm enough now for Brienne to unzip her coat. “Wait, I thought you hadn’t filmed in the North before?”

He chuckled. “We shot _The Deserter_ in the Vale with bits of shredded paper being blown on us by giant fans. A bit of flat rock near the Bloody Gate stood in for the Wall.”

“And why would northerners tell you about Abel and the King-Beyond-the-Wall when Ygritte doesn’t know?” Brienne frowned. “Are you making it up?”

“I’m very charming, and they were very drunk. Largely because I was paying for the drinks.”

Brienne shrugged out of her coat and sank onto the couch. “There’s not even any such thing as the King-Beyond-the-Wall anymore, only in songs and stories.”

“No such thing as _only_ in songs and stories,” Jaime countered. “I bet if Abel’s still alive, he’s sitting on a weirwood chair warming his feet on a white bear pelt and holding court.”

“He’s been dead for –”

“He _disappeared_,” Jaime said. “Plenty of people think he’s alive. You should find my laptop and check out the _Theories of Ice and Fire_ site.”

Brienne snorted. “Conspiracy theorists.”

“Open-minded seekers after truth.”

“People think Brynden Rivers is still alive, too.”

“Yeah, but Rivers would be about a hundred and twenty-five if he was still alive. Abel would be … what, seventy? Not that old.”

Brienne yawned, and let her head fall back against the arm of the couch. “I suppose.”

“Coffee wearing off?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Get some sleep. Use my bed.”

Brienne’s eyes popped open again. “Oh, I couldn’t –”

Jaime laughed softly. “It’s not as if I’m in it, wench. It’s quite comfortable, and you can steal more of my clothes in the morning.”

Brienne bit her lip. “Alright. Thanks.”

“Sleep well,” Jaime said. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She lowered the phone and stared at it for a moment. _Length of call: 57 minutes._ Had she really just spent nearly an hour talking to Jaime Lannister about … she hardly knew how to categorise their conversation.

Not as professional, that was certain.


	21. Brienne VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne have dinner.

Brienne loaded Jaime’s suitcases into the boot of her rental and slammed it shut. It was almost worth loading her own bags in as well: she had two or three days work left on set at the most, assisting Davos Seaworth as he supervised the shut down of _Oathkeeper’s_ production. Olenna Tyrell, Sandor Clegane, half the crew and the entirety of the talent had already left.

The film was dead.

Brienne was fairly sure that the reason Davos had asked her, rather than any of the other assistants, to work with him to the end was that he knew she didn’t have any industry contacts to find fresh work quickly. _Not that I’m sure I’m even interested_, she thought, fitting herself into the driver’s seat and shutting the door. She could go back to Tarth for a while, spend time with her father, find another job in close protection. _Or something else_. She wasn’t too old for a complete career change, although when she tried to think what she might change _to_ she drew a blank.

She’d promised to pick Jaime up at the hospital at seven, and although the roads were bad she was still early. She grabbed his suitcases and started for the hospital door. Before she’d gotten more than a few steps, the doors opened and Jaime emerged, encased in a thick coat, the right arm hanging loose and empty. He waved with his left hand, and Brienne stopped as he hurried towards her.

“I’ve got your suitcases …”

“Let me in the car instead,” Jaime said, with his most charming smile. “Before I freeze to death.”

“It’s unlocked.”

Jaime hurried around to the passenger side and got in while Brienne put the suitcases back into the boot. “So where are you taking me?” he asked as she got in, fumbling one-handed with the seatbelt.

Brienne leaned over and buckled him in, then started the car. “Hodor’s. And I recommend Old Nan’s Heart-Attack Special from the all-day breakfast menu.”

“If I still had two good hands I’d be rubbing them together in glee at the mention of an all-day breakfast menu in a Northern restaurant.”

“It’s more of a café,” Brienne admitted. “But it’s good. And close. And warm.”

“Even better. No tablecloths? Tea in mugs?” Brienne nodded, and Jaime beamed. “Perfect. So how’s the film?”

Startled, she glanced at him. “You haven’t heard? It’s cancelled.”

Jaime sighed. “Ah, shit. So the Iron Bank pulled their backing?”

Brienne nodded. “There were a few days there when it seemed like Ms Tyrell might be able to get support from Hightower Bank, but it fell through. We’re packing up the last of the production –”

“Bumping out,” Jaime said. He grinned at her. “If you’re going to keep working in entertainment, you need to start learning the terms.”

Brienne found a parking spot only a few yards from _Hodor’s Café and Grill_, among a slew of Watch vehicles. “Bumping out.” 

Jaime managed to unfasten his seatbelt by himself. “Have you got something lined up?”

Brienne shrugged. “Something will turn up.”

“I’d better pay for dinner, then, even if I did win the bet.” Jaime got out of the car and shut the door. When Brienne joined him, he offered his left arm as if escorting her to some formal venue. “It seems like I’m the only one who’s going to get a full pay-check from _Oathkeeper_.”

Tentatively, she took his arm. “No, it’s – it’s not a pricey place.”

“Well, I guessed that when you mentioned the all-day breakfast menu.” Jaime glanced around as they hurried to the door. “Police favourite, I take it?”

“Yes, Dad found it.” Brienne opened the door for him.

Jaime followed her inside. “Then the food will be good and the tea will be fearsomely strong.”

It was blissfully warm inside, in part due to the open fire blazing at the end of the room but aided by the blast of hot air from the heating vents. Brienne took off her coat, and then helped Jaime with his when he struggled to undo the zipper with his left hand. With his coat off, she could see his right hand and wrist were in both a cast and a sling. She hung both coats on the track, their bright colours a stark contrast to the Watch black.

“Hodor?” Hodor said, and Brienne turned.

“Just the two of us,” she said, having been warned about Hodor by her father before her first visit. _He understands everything, Edd Tollet says, just can’t get anything out but his name._

Hodor nodded, and gestured to a table near the fire. “Hodor!”

Once they were seated, Jaime cast a cursory glance over the menu and set it aside. “I can make some calls, if you like. I know a few people who might be able to find a job for you.”

Brienne narrowed her eyes. “Who? I know the sort of people the movie industry is full of. I don’t want to work with scumbags or creeps.”

“Then you should have stayed a bodyguard,” Jaime shot back. He sighed, and the hard line of his mouth softened again. “As you like, Brienne. Go back to your Sapphire Isle, or back to Renly if you’d rather.”

Brienne lowered her eyes to the menu. “Do you know what you want?”

“Old Nan’s Special, as per your recommendation,” Jaime said promptly. “And a bottle of Castle Black Brew.”

Brienne wrinkled her nose. “Really? It tastes like horse piss.”

“Thank you for the advisory. What do you recommend?”

“White Harbour Pale,” Brienne said. “Davos swears by Manderly Breweries.” 

“Then I’ll have that.” He glanced around. “Are we the only people here who aren’t LEOs?”

Brienne looked left, then right. Black uniforms, and men and women who weren’t in uniform but who looked as if they’d be more comfortable if they were. “Maybe?” 

Jaime grinned. “You brought me to a real cop hang-out. Brienne Tarth, you’ve outdone yourself.” He raised a hand, and when Hodor hurried over, gave his order.

“The same for me,” Brienne said. “But a Red Stallion.” One beer might not put her over the limit to drive in normal circumstances, but the north in winter was not normal circumstances.

“Hodor,” Hodor said, writing. “Hodor?”

“Do you have chips or onion rings?” Jaime asked. Brienne winced a little, realising she should have given Jaime the same warning her father had given her.

Hodor nodded. “Hodor.”

“Perfect,” Jaime said, and Hodor bustled away. “So how much longer are you on set?”

“Two or three days. I thought I might go back to Tarth for a little while, actually.”

Jaime smiled. “Not Skagos? Or the Ice Wall? Or even Last Hearth?”

Brienne looked down at the Laminex table. _He’s entirely too beautiful when he smiles like that_. “Maybe Last Hearth. I don’t think I’d have –” _the money_ “ – the time for the others.”

“And it’s cold as the Stranger’s kiss already, and we’re as far south of the wall as King’s Landing is from here. It’s hardly the time for a day-trip to Skagos.”

Hodor returned with their drinks and a basket of chips. Jaime thanked him, and Hodor dipped his head. “Hodor.”

Brienne waited for him to leave again, then leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He, uh …”

“Some kind of brain injury?” Jaime said.

Startled, Brienne raised her gaze again. “I don’t know.”

The corner of Jaime’s mouth turned up. “Don’t look so surprised, wench. You’ve met my brother. I learned not to judge on first impressions quite a long time ago.”

“Yes, sorry.” Brienne looked back at the table-top again, cheeks hot. “I didn’t think.”

“It’s alright.” Jaime pushed the basket of chips towards her, and picked up his beer. “I mean, the place is called _Hodor’s_ and it’s packed. It doesn’t take a silver link to work out he’s not a simpleton.”

Brienne took a chip and blew on it. “I’m just used to … anyway. When are you going south?”

Jaime glanced down at his right hand. “Another operation day after tomorrow, and then back to King’s Landing as soon as they clear me to fly.”

“You must be glad to be going home.”

His mouth tightened. “I’d rather not need to.”

_Gods, will I never know when to shut my mouth or what to say? _“I know, I just –” Brienne shoved the chip in her hand into her mouth and chewed rather than try to finish that sentence. She swallowed. “Maybe the film will be made, one day.”

“Maybe.” Jaime put down his beer, snagged a chip and ate it with no regard to how hot it was. “But it won’t be the first script to end up in development Seven Hells. And it’s not even that great a script.”

“I thought it was alright.”

Jaime snorted. “The second act’s bloated, the third act’s rushed, and the writers can’t decide which is the B plot and which isn’t. Willas is alright, I don’t know the others, but at least one of them has a tin-ear for dialogue and no grasp of the political realities of the time. Nobody knows who the Lord of Storm’s End is?” He snorted. “Let alone the Young Wolf legitimising the bastard son of the one man with a better claim to his throne than he has.”

“That did seem, um. Odd.” Brienne felt a little disloyal saying it. 

“Not as odd as the trebuchets in front of the infantry,” Jaime said as their plates arrived in Hodor’s massive hands. He surveyed his food and his lips thinned a little. For a moment Brienne thought he disapproved of the cuisine, but then, as she automatically picked up knife and fork to cut the sausage, she realised the problem. Quickly she cut everything on her plate into fork-sized pieces and, without comment, swapped it with Jaime’s. He gave her another of his ridiculously charming smiles and began to eat.

The food was just as good as it had been last time. Given the way Jaime cleaned his plate, he seemed to share Brienne’s opinion. There was very little conversation as they both worked their way steadily through their heaping mounds of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, beans, black pudding, mushrooms, tomatoes, roast onions, and roast potatoes, not to mention the three green beans apiece that was Old Nan’s concession to healthy eating. 

Finally Brienne had to concede defeat, even though she still had half a potato and a piece of toast on her plate. She set down her fork and picked up her drink.

“You’re bloody good on the tooth, aren’t you?” Jaime said.

Brienne eyed his plate, which was even cleaner than hers. “Pot, kettle, and so on.”

He grinned. “I’m going to be mostly sentenced to salad until I can get back into the gym properly, so I’m glad of a last hurrah.”

Brienne winced sympathetically. How her body looked, as opposed to what it was capable of, wasn’t something she spent much time thinking about: it didn’t look much like what a woman’s body was supposed to look like, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it, and that was all there was to it. _But I suppose all actors, male and female, have to make sure they look as good as possible. _That was something Jaime Lannister had certainly managed to achieve. “I tried dieting once. I lasted … oh, two days? Maybe two and a half.”

He laughed. “Yes, it’s each and every one of the Seven Hells. I –”

“Mr Lannister, Brienne, evening.”

Brienne turned to see Jon Snow. His coat was still on, though unzipped, and the snowflakes in his hair were only just melting. “Commander. Uh … would you like to join us?”

Jon gave her his small, restrained smile. He was a different person in uniform, in public, to the young man who watched sports on her couch with Ygritte and smiled with more than just his mouth. “I’m just picking up takeout. Mr Lannister, I’m glad to see you’re well.”

“Jaime,” Jaime corrected, with a smile but also with an edge to his voice. “I much prefer Jaime.”

“If you’ll call me Jon.” He accepted a paper sack from a beaming Hodor, and a plastic bag that Brienne was almost certain contained a bone. _For Ghost_. “I was sorry to hear they cancelled your film.”

“Not so much _my_ film anymore,” Jaime corrected.

“I was sorry anyway. Perhaps we’ll see you north of the Neck again one day.”

“Well, I’ll no doubt be needed to testify at some point, so I’m sure you will.”

Jon gave that contained smile again. “Your brother – and lawyer – has secured your right to testify by video link. To spare you the trauma.”

Jaime blinked. “And Brienne?”

“He didn’t mention Brienne.”

“I’ll make sure to draw his attention to his oversight,” Jaime said tightly.

“It’s fine,” Brienne said quickly. “I don’t mind.”

“I’ll wait to hear from Mr Lannister,” Jon said mildly. “Enjoy your evening.”

As he made his way out, Brienne lowered her voice a little. “Jaime, I don’t need you to have Tyrion intervene –”

Jaime smiled, but there was still something hard in his eyes. “Nonsense, wench. Imagine the damage to my reputation, and marketability, if I chicken out of something you clear in your stride. Now. Is it appropriate to have dessert after breakfast, if breakfast is eaten in the evening?”

“I don’t think I could,” Brienne said. “Honestly. And I have a long drive to get back to Winterfell.”

“Alright, then.” Jaime took out his wallet one-handed and extracted his Maestercard. “Since I won our bet with inside information, I should definitely pay for dinner.” Brienne opened her mouth and Jaime raised his eyebrows. “And if you argue, wench, I will insist on paying for the petrol you burned to get here tonight. And you know I can row for the Westerlands when necessary.”

Brienne couldn’t supress a smile. “I do know that, yes.”

Jaime waved the card at Hodor, who came over with the bill. “And since you can be stubborn for the Stormlands, we could be here all night.”

“I’m not stubborn,” Brienne said stubbornly.

Jaime threw back his head and laughed so loudly people around them turned to look. “Oh, wench. You are as stubborn as the Long Night was long. It’s probably why I’m still alive, so take it as the compliment I intend, please.”

She felt her cheeks burn, the more so because people were looking at them both now and Brienne didn’t need to see the expressions on their faces to know what they’d be. _Her?_ they’d say, silently. _A man like that having dinner with a woman like _her_? _“Alright,” she mumbled, staring at the tabletop.

Jaime took care of the bill, retrieved his card, and to Brienne’s surprise reached out to put his hand over hers. “I’ve said something wrong,” he said, without a trace of his usual mockery. “Brienne?”

Brienne shook her head, and retrieved her hand before anyone else could notice. “No. I’m just tired. I should get you back to the hospital.”

“Alright then.”

Jaime let her help him back into his coat and waited while she donned her own. “Do you want to wait while I warm up the car?” Brienne asked.

“That is the most tempting offer I’ve had in weeks,” Jaime said. “But I can’t, as a gentleman, let you suffer alone.”

Brienne smiled despite herself. “Oh, you’re a gentleman now?”

“Well, no. Not really. I have aspirations of being a knight errant, though.” He hunched his shoulders. “Lead on, Macduff.”

“It’s _lay_ on,” Brienne said, opening the door for him. “Lay on, Macduff.”

“It’s bad luck to quote it, though,” Jaime said as he followed her through.

Brienne snorted. “You are so –”

A white light flared off to her left.

_Muzzle flash_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note ‘row for the Westerlands’ – the word is used in the sense of argue, not in the sense of boats, and at least in my accent, rhymes with ‘cow’ rather than sounding the same as ‘row your boat’.   
It is actually a showbiz superstition that it’s bad luck to quote Macbeth, or even mention the name of the “Scottish play” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Scottish_Play


	22. Brienne IIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to the cliff-hanger.

_Muzzle flash_.

Brienne was moving even before she’d completed the thought, hand closing on Jaime’s arm, shoving him ahead of her into the nearest doorway. Some part of her mind not screaming _gun, gun, gun_ registered the writing on the door. _Mikken’s Hardware. _Through the glass she could see long rows of shelves, hammers, screwdrivers, shovels …

_Flash_ again. _Shock. You’re in shock. Shake it off. Move. Act. _Brienne was unarmed, she could do nothing expect press Jaime down into the corner, trying to cushion his right arm, and cover him with her body and wait for the impact of bullets, and _flash_ again and finally she registered that there was no sound accompanying the light. _Flash – flash – flash …_

Brienne turned to see Meryn Trant looming over them, taking picture after picture. She rose to her feet and he stepped back, still firing the camera, the flash making her vision bloom with green and red spots. She took a step towards him and he backed away.

“This is a public place,” he said. “I’m not trespassing. You’re in public. I’m within my rights.”

Behind Brienne, Jaime climbed to his feet. “Honestly, Meryn. If you wanted a photo you could have asked, instead of waiting in the cold to ambush me.”

Trant raised his camera again and Brienne was briefly blinded by the flash. She reached out and he danced backward again. “Now, you don’t want to assault me in a public place, do you?”

Jaime took Brienne’s arm and stepped in front of her. “Meryn. Do we really need to have an adversarial relationship? Haven’t I been helpful to you in the past?”

Trant raised his camera and fired it again. “I got bills to pay, don’t I? And had to replace my camera.” 

“I’ll give you all the pictures you want, but you know our arrangement. And this –”

“I’m changing our arrangement.” Trant took four more pictures in quick succession and scuttled away before Brienne could get past Jaime to tackle him.

“Let him go,” Jaime said. “Legally, he’s in the right.”

“I’m sorry.” Brienne stared at the pavement. Her hands were shaking with the aftermath of adrenaline and she shoved them in her pockets. “I shouldn’t have – I’ve made it worse, haven’t I?”

Jaime touched her shoulder. “Meryn Trant makes himself worse, wench.”

“But I shouldn’t have – I overreacted.” 

“Can we get in the car before we talk about it? I’m reaching hypothermic levels of chill.”

“Of course,” Brienne said hurriedly, digging out her keys. _I’m such an idiot. _She clicked _unlock _ and the lights on her hire car flashed. “There.”

Jaime hurried around to the passenger side as Brienne got in behind the wheel and started the engine to get the heater going. He dug out his phone. “Before we talk, I need to make a quick call. Alright?”

“Of course.”

He dialled, raised the phone. “It’s Jaime. Listen, Meryn Trant just took some photos I need you to buy. _No_, it’s just – just get on to him and get them, alright, Varys? Yes. Call me back when it’s done.”

“Varys?” Brienne asked when he’d lowered the phone. “A Mr Varys offered me money –”

“Tyrion’s idea,” Jaime said hastily. “He works for Tyrion, _with_ Tyrion really. I didn’t even know, until he’d already – _I _trust you, Brienne. Tyrion doesn’t know you, though, and there are people – you wouldn’t believe what some people will do –”

“Alright,” Brienne interrupted.

Jaime looked surprised. “Alright?”

“I was in the Gold Cloaks and the Rainbow Guard before I worked protection, Jaime. I’ve had integrity probes run on me before.”

“You’re not angry?”

Brienne snorted. “Because someone who doesn’t know me, doesn’t know me? How would that make sense?”

“Brienne.” Jaime dropped his phone and reached over to put his hand over hers. “Tyrion just did it. He didn’t ask.”

“It’s fine, Jaime.” She turned her hand to squeeze his fingers. “If I had a brother –” _who hadn’t died_ “—and he was famous, I’d probably check out the people around him, too. Tyrion is just looking out for you.”

“You are amazing,” Jaime said. “I –” His phone squawked and he pulled his hand free to scramble it up. “Varys. Good. Thank you.” He hung up. “Trant is always willing to sell to the highest biller. Today, it’s me.”

“But aren’t you …” Brienne hesitated. “Aren’t you used to it? People taking photographs?”

“Yes, but _you_ aren’t,” Jaime said. “You get your photograph taken with me, it’ll be on the front page of the _Gulltown Gossip_ and the _Eyrie Inquirer_ tomorrow.”

_Of course. _The last thing Jaime Lannister would want would be to publicly linked with someone who looked like her. Brienne cleared her throat and nodded. “I understand. As I said, I should get you back to the hospital.”

“Don’t worry,” Jaime said as she started the car, checked the mirrors, and pulled out. “Trant knows better than to try and double-cross Varys.”

“I’m glad,” Brienne said stiffly. “And I’m sorry I … over-reacted. Misunderstood the situation. I saw the flash, and I thought – well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“I can safely say I’ve never been tackled to the ground more gently.” Jaime was silent a moment. “My brother would say that this is the height of hypocrisy, coming from me … but have you thought about talking to someone?”

Brienne was startled enough to glance at him before she jerked her gaze back to the road ahead. “Talking to someone?”

“I’m kind of assuming you didn’t used to _over-react_ to camera flashes when you worked for Renly Baratheon, he’s more of a magnet for the paps than I am. And … it’s not that I don’t appreciate the fact that you were prepared to take a bullet for me, but it’s maybe something you should address?” He paused. “I mean, I’m not a maester, but I played one once, so you should definitely take my advice.”

Despite the tension that still locked her shoulders and neck, Brienne smiled. “Really? Which film?”

“Frey’s Anatomy. I was the charming-yet-secretly-evil maester scheming to destroy the hospital from within.”

“I’m not sure I should take advice from a secretly evil maester, no matter how charming.”

Jaime laughed. “You’re probably right. But, you know … think about it. Things creep up on you.”

Brienne bit her lip. “Did they creep up on you? After … after that thing, that you told me?”

“Oh, fuck no, there was no _creeping_,” Jaime said lightly. “I went to pieces quite promptly and _quite_ comprehensively. The thing about my job is, you do learn to pretend quite well. And Tyrion was so young, then, and our father wasn’t exactly what you’d call _supportive_ of his imperfect younger son. I had to keep pretending I was fine, for Tyrion, and eventually … well, you fake it ‘till you make it, I suppose.”

“Didn’t you have anyone?” Brienne asked softly. “Anyone to talk to? I mean, I talk to my dad, but yours …”

“Tywin Lannister isn’t easy to talk to at the best of times, no,” Jaime said. “I had my Aunt Genna. Although Aunt Genna’s idea of cheering me up was teaching me the words to _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ and _The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown_, so it wasn’t what you’d call optimally helpful. And I couldn’t tell her … I couldn’t tell anyone what really happened, not with all the NDAs I’d signed. Not even Tyrion. Not even Cersei.”

“I won’t tell,” Brienne said quickly. “Jaime. I won’t let anyone know, anything.”

“I know that, wench,” Jaime said. “If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you’re trustworthy.”

Brienne felt her cheeks warm at his words, and then a thought struck her. “Isn’t Tyrion your lawyer, as well as your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you can tell him, then. I mean, as your lawyer.” She bit her lip. “And maybe you should. Maybe, as your lawyer, he could find a way to get around the NDA. And … I’d want to know, something like that, about my brother. Even if I couldn’t help.”

“You have a brother?”

“He … he died,” Brienne said.

“Oh wench, I’m sorry.” Jaime turned in his seat enough to put his hand over hers where it rested on the gear-stick. 

She shook her head. “It was a long time ago. I was so young, I can hardly remember him.” 

Jaime didn’t move his hand. “How did he die?”

“He drowned. He was just eight.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, fingers tightening over hers for an instant before he let go. 

“It doesn’t matter. I just meant – maybe you should tell Tyrion what happened.” Brienne pulled up in the blue drop-off zone outside the Moat Cailin hospital. “I’ll walk you in.”

“No point in both us getting cold,” Jaime said easily. He fumbled his seatbelt free. “Will you come and see me again before you head south?”

“If you’d like.”

He gave her one of his brilliant smiles. “I do like, wench.”

“All right, then. Um. I’ll text you?”

Jaime opened the door and winced at the blast of cold air. “Drive safely,” he said, and was gone.

Brienne watched until he was safely inside the doors before she pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to the Kingsroad.

It wasn’t until she turned off onto the road to Winterfell she realised she still had Jaime’s suitcases in the boot of her car. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catlady_Jos gets credit for 'Frey's Anatomy'.


	23. Ravens I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter in texts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last chapter and this one are both shorter than usual, have an early bonus!

9:45 Jaime L: _Where r u?_

9:45 B Tarth: _Last Hearth_.

9:45 Jaime L: _So production bmped out?_

9.46 B Tarth: _Yes. _

9:46 Jaime L: _R u taking te tour?_

9:46 B Tarth: _Do you really think I’d be rude enough to leave my phone on during a guided tour?_

9:47 Jaime L: _No, nanny wench. I don’t. Is the fmily in residece? Coz if so, say hi to Whoresbane for me._

9:49 B Tarth_: Please tell me that was a typo._

9:50 Jaime L: _Hother Umber. Umbr cousin of some sort? Friend of Tyrion’s_

9: 50 B Tarth: _ So it was a typo._

9:51 Jaime L: _What, Whoresbane? No, it’s his nickname._

9:51 B Tarth: _I don’t want to know._

9:52 Jaime L: _But it’s a great story._

9:52 B Tarth: _Don’t tell it to me, please._

9:54 Jaime L: _Guy was preying on rch guys he met n Rvdr. Robbin them. Like, vioent stuff too. Was armed. Tried it on Hother. Hother took hs gun ff him, yeeted him clear across teh rom, though the door, dwn the corrdor. Hother umber, Whoresbane._

9:56 B Tarth: _I don’t approve of the term ‘whore’_.

9:57 Jaime L: _Sex worker bane doesn’t have the smae ring. Do you wnt me to tell you about hs brother, Crowfood?_

9:57 B Tarth: _Not even slightly. _

9:58 Jaime L: _Nwya, if you run into him, sya hi from me._

10:01 B Tarth: _I’m not going to run into him. I’m just walking around the public areas. _

10:01 Jaime L: _Not teh haunted prts?_

10:02 B Tarth: _There are no haunted parts. _

10:03 Jaime L: _The ghst of little Ned Umbr screams all night in the Gret Hall._

10:03 B Tarth: _There are no ghosts. _

10:03 Jaime L: _U clrly hve no imagination. _

10:04 B Tarth: _You clearly have no autocorrect. _

10: 15 Jaime L: _It’s hrd to txt with jst my lft hnd._

10:22 B Tarth: _Sorry. I didn’t think. How did surgery go?_

10:35 Jaime L: _Wench, ur in the mst famos haunted castel in Westers. Concntrate on wat’s imprnt. Eny cold spts. Drfts. Strange snouds. _

10:35 B Tarth: _I do not believe in ghosts._

10:35 Jaime L: _Maybe thy believe in u? _

10:36 B Tarth: _You’re being ridiculous. _

10:36 Jaime L: _If u hear Nd Umber run b4 he gtes u. _

10:37 B Tarth: _I’m going to concentrate on the castle now. _

10:37 Jaime L: _If you meet Whorsebane jst aks him. _

10:39 B Tarth: _I don’t think I’ll run into Mr Umber. _

10:40 Jaime L: _I’ll cll him now and tll him to find u. _

10:40 B Tarth: _Don’t do that._

10:55 Jaime L: _Too late. Ull liek him. _

10:55 B Tarth: _Tell me you were japing. _

11:35 B Tarth: _ Jaime Lannister I am going to kill you. _

11:35 Jaime L: _Did u see the ghst of Nd Umber?_

11:36 B Tarth: _There’s no such thing as ghosts. _

11.36 Jaime L: _Did u tho?_

11:43 Jaime L: _Brienne?_

11:47 Jaime L: _Brienne, did Ned U get u? _

11:56 Jaime L: _Eithre u r ded or ignoring me. Both upsetting._

11:57 B Tarth: _Jaime I am trying to talk to Mr Umber. Because you called him. _

11:58 Jaime L: _So ur not dead?_

12:14: Jaime L: _Brienne?_

12:16 B Tarth: _I’m not dead, I’m eating lunch. _

12:16 Jaime L: _With Whosrebane? _

12:17 B Tarth: _With Mr Umber._

12:18 Jaime L: _I new u’d like him._

12:20 Jaime L: _Brienne? _

12:25 B Tarth: _A responsible adult should take that phone away from you. _

12:26 Jaime L: _Yes, nanny wench. _

12:34 B Tarth: _Don’t tempt me to block you._

12:35 Jaime L : _U wouldn’t._

12:45 Jaime L: _Brienne? Did u rlly block me?_

12:58 Jaime L: _If u bocked me u shd tell me._

13:15 Jaime L : _Brienne?_

13:20 B Tarth: _I was driving. I didn’t block you. _

13:21 Jaime L: _I wd never block u._

13:21 B Tarth: _Is that because I’m the only person still willing to allow you to have their mobile number?_

13:22 Jaime L: _That’s unkind. _

13:22 Jaime L: _Also yes. _

13:25 Jaime L: _R u driving again?_

13:35 Jaime L: _I guess yes. _

13:40 Jaime L: _R u on way to moot Cailin? We cd hv dinner. _

13:55 Jaime L: _My shout. You choso. _

13:56 Jaime L: _Im getting dsicharged_. _Let’s clebrate. _

14:19 B Tarth: _I’m never going to get there if I have to keep pulling over to answer your texts. Do you need a lift from the hospital?_

14:20 Jaime L: _Brnn is drivin me. Where do u watn to have dnner? _

14:21 B Tarth: _I have your suitcases still. _

14:21 Jaime L: _I haev ur clothes still. Prsioner exchange? _

14:38: Jaime L: _Brienne?_

14:55 Jaime L: _You’re driving again rnt u?_

15:22 Jaime L: _Stop revive survive, wench._

15:35 B Tarth: _Why don’t you_ _read a book or something? Is there nothing on TV? _

15:36 Jaime L: _Y wd u wish daytme tv on me? Wat did I do to u? _

15:36 Jaime L: _Dnt_ _answer tht. _

15:37 Jaime L: _But srsly, how cn I decied btw My Big Fat Dornish Wedding, Sleepless in Highgarden, and reruns of The Frehs Prince of Visenya’s Hill and Little House In The Rvierlands? _

15:37 B Tarth: _They’re still rerunning that? _

15:38 Jaime L: _We wll both die of odl age b4 Little Hsou In The RL foes off air. _

15:38 B Tarth: _Which episode is it?_

15:40 Jaime L: _Jeyne thks shes pregnant. Masha is freeking out. Ben is pretnding he si teh fthr but its Will. _

15:41 Jaime L: _I cnt believe u tricked me into wtching. _

15:44 Jaime L: _N teh b plot Wat is being bllied and hs run away. _

15:56 Jaime L: _Nw he fell in teh Trident. _

16:01 Jaime L: _They ll lrned a vry important lsson. Abot something. _

16:02 Jaime L: _Rlly cnt believe I fell 4 that. _

16:03 Jaime L: _In this one, Msha is dting n teh kids r freaing out. _

16:04 Jaime L: _Subtitle: Jmie Lnnister longs 4 death. _

16:05 Jaime L: _I wll get u back 4 this. _

16:06 Jaime L: _I flee srry 4 teh actors. Teh writing makes Bedding n teh City lk deep. _

16:10 B Tarth: _You watch Bedding and the City?_

16:11 Jaime L: _No. _

16:11 B Tarth: _Because it sounds like you watch it. _

16:12 Jaime L: _I swa an esipode onec. _

16:12 B Tarth: _I’m not sure I believe you. Anyway. I’m downstairs, with your suitcases. See you in five minutes._

16:12 Jaime L: _no b not a good idea_

16:12: Jaime L: _there’ll b paps_

16:12: Jaime L: _B? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, some of the titles courtesy of the brilliant Catlady_Jos and Wirette


	24. Jaime XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's wench is in a tight spot. What's a Kingslayer to do?

“Shit!” Jaime dropped his phone and flung himself off the bed. “Bronn? Bronn!”

Bronn Stokeworth leaned in through the doorway. “They’re just finishing the paperwork.” 

“Fuck the paperwork.” Jaime grabbed his coat from the chair by the door.

“The policy is that patients need to be transported in wheelchairs –”

“Fuck the wheelchair.” The coat escaped when he tried to pin it to his chest with his chin so he could get his good arm into it. “Fuck this coat!”

Bronn snagged the coat from the ground and held it out for Jaime to put his good arm through the sleeve. “Why the sudden rush?”

_The most innocent woman I know is feeding herself to a mob of paparazzi downstairs. _How they’d heard he was leaving the hospital today, Jaime didn’t know, but he wasn’t surprised. _Littlefinger has his ways._ Bronn had brought the news that they were already gathering when he’d arrived. “Just get my bags and meet me.”

“The car is already at the back entrance,” Bronn said.

“Then bring it around the front!” Jaime snapped, and strode towards the elevator.

When he reached the lobby he realised it was worse than he’d feared. Through the glass doors he could see Brienne, twenty yards away, completely surrounded by paparazzi wielding cameras and journalists wielding microphones. Only her stature made it possible for him to see her at all as she turned one way and then another, trying to either hide her face or, quite simply, to find a clear path. Jaime knew well how the flashes must be blinding her and how deafening and disorienting the shouted questions combined with the click and whirr of cameras could be. _Fuck. If she panics …_ That would be news regardless of her connection to him. _Renly Baratheon’s former bodyguard going full Wun-Wun on a horde of journalists will be live at five on every channel in Westeros. _

“Mr Lannister!” One of the nurses from his floor had pursued him. “Mr Lannister – you need to –”

She was young and quite pretty, with the curls of her rich auburn hair threatening to escape from her efforts to tame it with pins. _The cameras will love that. _“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Cassel. I’m Sister Cassel.” She paused. “Um. Beth.”

“Beth, would you like to make five hundred dragons right now and probably a lot more for interviews later?”

She gaped at him a moment, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Five hundred dragons?”

“All you have to do is walk out the front with me and stand next to me while they take some photos. With your arm around my waist. And then come back inside, and call my brother – he’ll be the contact on my medical records – and tell him I owe you five hundred dragons, I’ll text him your name. Tell him you need an agent, and then give all the interviews and do all the photoshoots you want, and make all you can out of it. I don’t even care what you say, so long as it’s not about my health. Tell them we had a wild affair, if you want. I won’t contradict you. But you have to decide _now_, please, Beth.”

Jaime had spent years carefully perfecting his charming smile, and he deployed it now without mercy. Beth blushed pink, and nodded. “Alright. I’ll … I’ll do it.”

“Good girl.” He put his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer, then steered her towards the doors. “You don’t have to say anything, and you don’t have to stay long. And none of these people will stay more than a day or two, so you needn’t worry about being followed around. I’ll make sure to be spotted with a stripper or something equally scandalous, and that’ll be that. Alright? Ready?”

Beth Cassel nodded, looking equal parts terrified and eager.

Jaime gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll be fine. Just smile and look shy, count to thirty and head back inside. Here we go.” The automatic doors slid open and the sound of cameras and shouted questions hit him, even at that distance. _Who are you? What’s your relationship to Jaime Lannister? Was he living with you, is that why you have his suitcases? Have you broken up? Why did you break up with him? Was it because of his relationship with his cousin? Did you find out he uses drugs?_

Jaime took a deep breath and used every trick of voice projection he knew. “Sers and ladies, I think you’ll find I’m over here.”

The focus of the press pack changed so quickly Jaime was reminded of a murmuration of starlings reversing course. They raced towards Jaime and Beth, leaving Brienne standing alone, Jaime’s suitcases still in her hands. 

_Get back in your car, wench_, he willed her. _Get back in your car, and drive away_. He tried to catch her eye, to convey the message somehow. _Get back in your car and drive away._

And then they were on him, and he couldn’t see a thing past the flares of white from the still cameras and he couldn’t hear anything over the reporters voices. _Jaime, Jaime! Is it true you’re going to lose your hand? Is this your new girlfriend? What’s her name? Did you fake your injury to get out of the film? Do you have any comment on the allegations that your injury happened in a drug deal gone wrong? _ _Was_ _it your new girlfriend’s ex? Jaime, the _Gulltown Gossip _is reporting that you paid to be beaten up for public sympathy, do you have any comment? Is it true you arranged the assault to avoid public indecency charges? Jaime, Jaime! Obara Sand on _The Sand Snakes Say_ implied you were sexually involved with an underage girl on the set of _Oathkeeper_, do you have anything to say? Jaime! Jaime! _

It was absolutely the sort of situation that Jaime had spent his entire professional life avoiding: a press pack off the leash, not cordoned behind ropes or constrained by the fear of having credentials withdrawn.

Jaime turned a little so he was between Beth and the journalists and photographers. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Go on back inside.”

She stared up at him, eyes wide. “They’re _awful_!”

He smiled. “They are, yes. Go inside, and I’ll deal with them.” He kept his body between her and the cameras until she’d scuttled back in through the doors, and then turned back with his most brilliant smile. “Sers and ladies! One at a time, please, one at a time.”

He might as well have asked them to fly. _Words are wind._ The cacophony didn’t lessen. _Jaime, Jaime – do you have anything to say in response to – what do you say about – is it true that – what about the allegations that – Jaime, Jaime! _

“One at a time!” _Fuck, where’s Bronn? _Of course, he could have drawn up the car immediately behind the press pack and Jaime wouldn’t have been able to see it. “I’m happy to answer your questions, but I can’t do that if I can’t hear them. Please.”

A microphone was shoved in his face. “Jaime, what can you tell us about your ordeal?” Anya Waynwood asked.

Jaime smiled at her. _One of the few entertainment reporters old enough to remember when it was actually _reporting_, unlike the rest of these young pups, full of piss and pride. _“It’s good to see you, Anya. And I’m sure you’ll understand that there’s not a great deal I _can_ say, with ongoing legal proceedings in which I’m a witness. But I do encourage any of you who have any questions about the _official Watch statement_ to take those questions up directly with the Watch.” _Jon Snow will give them short shrift. If the gods are good, he’ll set that enormous dog of his on them_. “What I can tell you is that I wouldn’t be here to talk to you today –” _without Brienne Tarth_, but that would hardly make her _less_ of a target for stalkers with a press-pass. “Without the hard work, dedication, and bravery of a number of people, including the men and women of the Watch. You all know I’ve always been a fan of the old stories of our shared history, so you can believe me when I say that the north is served today by Black Crows as true as the crows who walked the Wall in the age of ice and fire. They are the Night’s Watch still.”

“Jaime, a source inside the Watch says that you were held hostage along with a woman, is that true?” That was from fat little Benedar Belmore.

“Again, I can’t go into any more details than the Watch has provided, for reasons of protecting the integrity of the prosecution of the perpetrators.” _Surviving perpetrators. _“In addition, I’ll just point out that while I’m a public figure, many other people are not, and deserve their privacy.”

“How’s your hand?” Lyonel Corbray asked.

_Shit. It’s shit._ Jaime didn’t let the thought show on his face, not even in his eyes. “I’m very grateful to the Moat Cailin Hospital for the excellent care I’ve received. Obviously, I’ve still got some recovering to do, but I couldn’t have asked for better maesters or nurses.”

“Was that your girlfriend?”

And oh, but he knew how to play that question, had been doing it for years with one woman or another used as a shield against any speculation about him and Cersei. Jaime dropped his gaze, let the trace of a smug smile play around his lips, and then composed himself. “No comment.”

Behind the press pack, and loud enough to be heard over them, a car engine revved as obnoxiously as a street racer. _Bronn_. Jaime was still hemmed in, but unlike Brienne he had practice handling the situation. He selected a cameraman and moved closer. The man stepped back, elbowing aside the people behind him, trying to keep sufficient range to keep Jaime in frame. Keeping his face in an expression of pleasant neutrality, Jaime moved closer again, took advantage of the gap that opened to target a photographer, worked sideways and then changed target again. A few more steps and he was out the other side and striding towards Bronn’s car.

He scanned the parking lot before he reached for the door, making sure that Brienne had had the sense to make herself scarce. To his relief, she was nowhere to be seen, and so he clawed the car door open with his left hand, fell into the seat and slammed it shut at Bronn stood hard on the accelerator. 

“Your brother is going to fucking kill me,” Bronn said, taking the corner out of the parking lot so fast the tyres squealed on the road. “He gave me one fucking job, to help you avoid those salacious cunts, and you fucking walked right into them.”

“You couldn’t have stopped me.” Jaime fumbled with his seatbelt.

“I’ve got twenty dragons that say I could’ve, if I’d been willing to risk marking your pretty face.”

“Just drive me to the hotel.” Jaime dug out his phone. _Brienne_, he typed painstakingly with his left thumb. _R u alright? _

It was several agonizing minutes before an answer came. _Yes. You?_

_Fine. Meet at_ – “What’s the hotel called?” Jaime asked Bronn.

“Tallhart Towers.”

_At Tallhart Towers. Ask at dsek 4 Loren Hill_.

Brienne’s response made him laugh aloud. _Could you be more obvious?_

_You’re a thousand times cleverer and bettr educted than teh press, wench._

_And yet you still can’t remember my name_, she shot back immediately.

_Didn’t sya I was cleverer_, he answered. _Just u._

It was a long several minutes before the flicking quill on the screen resolved itself into words. _Why didn’t you just go out the back? _

_Knight errant, rmemeber? Required to resceu damsels in distress. _

_I’m not a damsel._

Jaime smiled. _No. u r a fellow knight. So am oblgied to rendee aid when recquired. _He paused a moment, and when no reply came, added: _as u did me. _

Another long pause, then, until finally: _See you at the hotel. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My version of the bear and the maiden fair.


	25. Brienne IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne delivers Jaime's suitcases.

“Loren Hill?” Brienne asked the receptionist. She still couldn’t quite believe that Jaime had chosen, as a pseudonym, the most famous Lannister from the Age of Heroes and the historical name for illegitimate children from the Westerlands, but the receptionist didn’t bat an eyelid.

“I’ll call up for you,” he said, and punched a number into the phone. “Mr Hill? Are you expecting – yes. I’ll send her up.” He hung up. “Suite 1802. I’ll get one of the bellhops to take you up.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine –”

“You’ll need his pass for the elevator.”

_Right. This is rich people world. _“Thank you,” Brienne said meekly, and followed the bellhop into the elevator, carrying Jaime’s suitcases. Her own bags were in her rental car, parked down the street. The bellhop swiped a card, pressed a button, and the elevator car surged upwards so quickly Brienne staggered. Far sooner than she expected, the doors sprang open and the bellhop escorted her to one of only two doors in the corridor.

It opened as they reached it. “Thank you,” Jaime said, leaning out of the door to shake the bellhop’s hand. Brienne glimpsed a dragon note in his palm, quickly pocketed by the bellhop before she could discern the denomination. 

“I’ve got your suitcases,” she said awkwardly.

Jaime stepped back from the door. “Thank you.”

She carried them inside and set them down neatly, side by side. The suite looked more like a luxury apartment than anything Brienne associated with a hotel: a huge living/dining room with two enormous couches, a giant television, and a dining table that could easily have seated eight. There was even a kitchen, tucked away at one end, and closed doors that no doubt led to equally luxurious bedrooms. She could feel how thick the carpet was even through the heavy soles of her winter-proof boots. _And me, in the middle of it, wearing nothing that wasn’t bought on sale. _She didn’t fit with Jaime Lannister at the best of times, and she certainly didn’t fit in with his world. _Not like that pretty nurse. She’d look just right in a place like this. _“This is, um. Nice.”

He chuckled. “It’s certainly a step up from a trailer. Look, I know I suggested you choose somewhere for dinner, but given the sharks are in town, would you mind room-service?”

“Uh, I …” _It’s not as if it’s actually his hotel room. It’s a dining room. _“No, that’s fine. 

“I’d offer to take your coat, but …” Jaime raised his cast a little. “I’m a little short-handed.”

“Yes, of course.” Clumsily, Brienne shrugged out of her winter coat and hung it on the hooks by the door, grateful that she hadn’t been outdoors enough that day to have considered her insulated trousers necessary. 

“I can manage to get you a drink, though,” Jaime said brightly. “And the minibar in these places is always extremely well stocked. Ale? Beer? Wine – there’s Dornish Red and Arbor Gold.” He strode into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. “Myrish nectar, there’s a bottle from Selhorys that I honestly don’t recognise, Lannisport sweet – terrible vintage, though, I don’t recommend that. Volantene green?”

“Just, um … a beer, I guess.” She had to drive to the airport later, but in town, the roads would be fine. One beer wouldn’t do any harm.

Jaime opened the fridge. “Wolf’s Den stout?”

“That’s fine.”

“Fine.” He snagged a couple of cans one handed and set them on the counter. “That’s sacrilege. Wolf’s Den stout is widely considered the only good thing to come out the north.” He took down a couple of glasses, and then stopped, looking at the cans. “Well. It seems I can’t manage to get you a drink, after all.”

“Let me,” Brienne said quickly, going to him. Jaime moved aside a little, and Brienne opened the two cans. “There.” He hadn’t moved all that much aside, and she was uncomfortably aware that her arm was brushing his. Before she could move away, Jaime leaned in to pour the beers, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body and that his breath brushed her cheek. If she leaned, just a little … She snatched her glass and retreated. “Thanks.”

He picked up his own glass and stayed where he was. “I’m really sorry about the paps.”

“You tried to warn me.” She shrugged. “And I should have known. I mean, you were right when you said Renly gets a lot of press attention.”

“This is a bit of a feeding frenzy, though. Are you sure you’re alright? It can be a bit … well, overwhelming.”

Brienne nodded. “I could see them coming. I already knew they were cameras, not … not anything else. I didn’t enjoy it, but I’m not, you know. Upset.” She sipped her beer, which was, as Jaime had said, excellent. “And I, um. It was nice of you, to distract them.”

Jaime leaned against the counter, altogether more graceful than any one human being had a right to be. “Given it was my fault they were there, it seemed only fair.”

“Will your girlfriend be alright? They won’t bother her, will they?”

He blinked. “My girlfriend?”

“The nurse.”

“Oh, Beth.” He grinned. “I met her three seconds before we stepped out of the door. It’s always wise to give the press something they want, when you’re misleading them.” He shrugged. “I promised her five hundred dragons, which Tyrion will see she’s paid. He’ll set her up with an agent who will make sure she gets even more than that for a few exclusive interviews and maybe a photoshoot. Then, in a week or so, I’ll arrange to be snapped behaving inappropriately with a starlet or a stripper and Beth can make a little more coin giving an interview about how betrayed she feels and how I’m not at all the man she thought I was, and her life will go back to normal, albeit with the inclusion of a new car or a holiday somewhere warm.”

Brienne stared at him. “But that’s terrible! People will think you … that you behaved awfully!”

Jaime’s smile turned a little hard. “Wench, it’s just a story. That’s all the press deals in, stories.”

“You’re the one always saying how important stories are,” Brienne said.

“And this is _my_ story. I’m the heartless cad, remember? Kingslayer, oathbreaker, man without honour – ”

“But you’re not _any_ of those things!” Brienne burst out. “Why do you _want_ people to think the worst of you, when it isn’t even the worst of _you_, it’s just some made-up nonsense?” 

His smile faded altogether. “The story’s written, wench. I just play my part.”

“Maybe you should write a different story, then,” Brienne said stubbornly. “One about a man who is … good, and brave, and talented, and hard-working.”

Jaime stared at her for a moment, long enough for Brienne to quail a little at her presumption, and then the corner of his mouth turned up. “You are a loyal creature, aren’t you? Alas, I’m an actor, not a writer. I play the script as given to me. Anyway.” He sipped his beer. “I have something for you, wench, but given how stubborn and prickly you can be, I think we’d better eat first, to give me the chance to ply you with wine and soften you up a little.” He paused. “And that sounds quite disreputable, doesn’t it, as if I’m planning to take advantage of you.”

Brienne felt her cheeks warm and looked down. “I know you wouldn’t.” _I know what I look like. _“But I have to drive to the airport, so I shouldn’t have anything else to drink.”

“You’re leaving tonight?”

She nodded. “Booked on the red-eye.”

“You could change it to tomorrow,” Jaime suggested. “I mean, there’s a whole second bedroom in here just sitting empty.”

“Oh, I – I couldn’t impose,” Brienne said hastily.

He snorted. “I just told you, it’s a completely empty and unused bedroom. That I’m already paying for. I’m not sure how using it constitutes _imposing_ on anyone, least of all me.”

“I –”

“Brienne,” he wheedled, suddenly much closer than she expected. “I’ve been stuck in that hospital for weeks. I want to have a nice dinner and then watch a decent movie with someone I can talk to about it, not bolt down a salad knowing you’ve got a boarding call to make. Stay.” 

She stole a glance at his face. His expression was earnest. “What movie?” she temporised. 

Jaime grinned, as if she’d already agreed. “You can pick, but I get veto rights.”

Brienne bit her lip. “Alright. I’ll call and see if I can get another ticket.”

“Peck will take care of it,” Jaime said airily. He put his glass down and took out his phone, dialling. “The menu is … over there, I think. For dinner, but they can probably make anything you want. Peck? Yes, listen, there’s a Brienne Tarth booked out of Moat Cailin tonight – no, two Ns – yes, get the ticket changed to tomorrow? Yes. That’s fine. No I – well, that’s why I have you, Peck. So I don’t have to talk to them. Well, send flowers or something. Whatever’s appropriate.”

Brienne picked up the menu, trying not to listen to what was obviously a private conversation. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from room service – burgers and pasta, perhaps – but not a menu that wouldn’t have been out-of-place in the kind of restaurant she couldn’t afford to eat at. _Complete with prices._ She scanned the pages rapidly, looking for the least expensive item. _Nachos. Well, apart from a side salad. _

Jaime finished his conversation and put away his phone. “Made up your mind?”

“Nachos.”

“Mmm.” He picked up his glass and took a long swallow of his beer. Brienne tried not to stare at the way his throat moved as he did it, with limited success. She did manage to tear her eyes away as he lowered his glass and levelled his gaze at her. “Brienne. I’m not as ridiculously wealthy as my father, or as obscenely rich as my clever little brother, but I have been fairly constantly in work for a decade, most of it on location with all my living expenses taken care of, and I’ve made a number of good investments. If you want nachos, have nachos. If you want YiTish beef, have that instead. Or whiskerfish steak. Or pork with dragon peppers. Or all of them, to see which you prefer.”

“I’ve never had YiTish beef,” Brienne mumbled.

“It’s bland, to my taste.” Jaime plucked the menu from her hands. “But we’ll get it, so you can judge for yourself. And potted hare. And clay-baked trout. And a Crown Roast.”

“Jaime, I can’t eat all that,” Brienne protested.

“And for sides, nettle salad, green beans with onions and bacon, potatoes Bravos –”

“Jaime!”

He grinned at her. “Oh, relax, wench, whatever you don’t eat will feed the kitchen hands and the bellhops. You’re practically obliged to over-order. Noblesse oblige. Let’s see … roast beets, onion rings … that should do. Oh, and my sad little salad, of course. And your nachos, in case you weren’t merely being polite.”

“That’s a ridiculous amount of food,” Brienne said sternly. “And a terrible waste of money.”

“That’s what money’s for, wench, spending.”

“Money’s for _saving_,” she corrected him.

He picked up the hotel phone. “And I do, mostly. Hello, room service? Yes, 1802, we’ll have …”

Brienne listened, unable to stop being appalled at the sheer extravagance, especially when Jaime added several more dishes in the course of the order. _Even if actors do make a lot of money, he doesn’t get leading roles … and what if he can’t work for ages, because of his hand? What if he can’t work again, at all?_

Jaime hung up. “An hour, they said. Come on. Let’s pick a movie.”

Brienne trailed after him to the couch and perched herself at the opposite end to him. “What’s on?”

Jaime fumbled with the remote left-handed for a moment and managed to get the television on and bring up a menu. “Everything in the wide world. We’ve got Weirflix, Rooktube … take a look.” He tossed the remote to her. It was a clumsy throw, and went well wide despite Brienne’s lunge after it. “Seven bloody buggering hells.”

Brienne put her glass down and went to fetch it. “It’s fine,” she said.

“It’s not fucking fine,” Jaime snarled, scowling. “I can barely fucking dress myself, let alone do anything _useful_, and –” He bit back what he was going to say. “Just pick a movie, wench. Something I’m not in, if you please.”

She sat down next to him. “You didn’t tell me how the surgery went.”

“That conversation requires more alcohol.” His lips were thin, his shoulders rigid.

_Not well, then_. _Oh, Jaime._ When he’d been at his sickest, during their captivity, Brienne had cradled him against her shoulder and run her fingers through his hair to soothe him. He’d seemed to find some comfort in it, and she longed to do just that now, so strongly that she had to curl her fingers into fists to keep from reaching out to him. Instead, she turned and studied the television screen. “There’s one on the Blue Knight, looks like. _First Knight, First Night._”

“Not that one,” Jaime said instantly, leaning over to snatch the remote from her hand.

“Are you in it?”

“No, I –” He cleared his throat. “No, I’m certainly not. It’s, uh, in the adult entertainment genre.” When Brienne looked blank, he blushed a little. “Porn.”

She gaped at him. “They made a pornographic movie about the Blue Knight?” _And how do you know that? _Well, that was an idiotic question, because obviously, Jaime knew because he’d watched the movie. Brienne wasn’t so young and naïve as to be surprised that a man watched pornography, but the idea of _Jaime_ doing so was somehow unsettling. 

“Wench, they’ve made a pornographic movie about every subject under the sun. Or so my little brother assures me. Look, they’ve got the new Griff movie, _The Griff Legacy_. Have you seen it?”

“I haven’t seen any of them.”

“Not even _The Griff Identity_? Wench, you’ve been missing out. Aegon Blackfyre might not have much range as an actor, but the fight scenes are amazing. If we start now, we can probably get through two of them tonight.”

Jaime looked so enthusiastic at the idea that Brienne couldn’t help smiling. “Alright,” she said, rather than telling him that modern action films were her idea of at least two of the Seven Hells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to ulmo80 for 'The Griff Identity'.


	26. Jaime XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne watch a movie.

“_Get some rest, Taena_,” Jon Griff said on the screen. “_You look tired_.”

Jaime fumbled for the remote as the credits began to roll, and switched the television off. At the other end of the couch, Brienne was sound asleep – as she had been for the past hour. She’d managed to successfully stifle her yawns for the first half of _The Griff Supremacy_ and had even put up a good front of being interested in the film, but long before Griff’s motorcycle chase through the streets of Norvos she’d been snoring softly, head pillowed on her arm. _An early start, a long drive, and big dinner. _Brienne had made remarkable inroads on the feast he’d ordered. _And two beers, because she’s apparently a lightweight._ Jaime smiled. It was rather endearing to find that a woman taller and quite possibly stronger than he was, who could fight him to a standstill and who’d been absolutely fearless facing the Brave Companions, would fall asleep on the couch after what many of his colleagues would call ‘lunch’.

Brienne looked too young to have done any of those things, curled up in sleep. Without her usual expression of either scepticism or sternness, her freckled face was soft and almost sweet, despite the broken nose. She was smiling slightly, and Jaime was reluctant to wake her from whatever pleasant dream she was having, but without the use of his right hand, he couldn’t even attempt to carry her to her bed.

He put his left hand on her ankle. “Brienne.”

She blinked, and turned to look at him. “Is it over?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She sat up, and rubbed her eyes. “It was a really good movie, I just … ”

Jaime chuckled. “Hated it. It’s alright, wench. Next time, I promise, I really _will_ let you choose.”

She blushed a little at being found out. “I’m going home tomorrow, though.”

“I’m only stuck here a few more days, myself.” Jaime raised his cast. “They like you to wait a while before flying. So when I get to King’s Landing, we can –” 

“No, I mean …” Brienne tucked her hair behind her ears. “Home to Tarth. Probably for the winter.”

“Oh.” _How long is ‘the winter’, wench? A month? Two? Five?_

“I’ve missed the past … oh, too many Last Darks and First Dawns. I was always working. I mean, Dad understands, of course, but he’s just got me, so …”

“You don’t need to apologise for wanting to spend your time off with your family, Brienne,” Jaime said, although in truth he felt unaccountably put out. The next few months promised to be painful and frustrating, but he’d faced them with the thought that at least his wench would be around for him to pester and amuse. _But she won’t. _“It’s what I’ll be doing, at least some of the time, at least, with the member of it I actually like.”

Brienne drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Do you want to tell me about your hand now?”

Perhaps because her voice was so very matter-of-fact, or perhaps simply because it was _her_, Jaime found himself talking. He told her about the maesters’ solemn faces, about the code words they’d used to try and cushion bad news until he’d forced them to tell him the bald, unadorned truth. _Nerve damage. Almost certainly irreparable. Some movement, some sensation … no, even with rehabilitation, you’ll need to learn to rely on your left hand. _He didn’t tell her that he’d thrown them all out of the room and wept until his throat ached, but that effort to maintain his dignity was spoiled when tears began to spill down his cheeks all over again.

“Jaime.” Brienne rose up on her knees and wrapped her arms around him, drawing him close. “Oh. Jaime, Jaime.”

He let his head rest on her broad shoulder and wondered all over again how it was possible for someone to be so strong and so gentle both at once. “Sorry. I thought I was done with this.”

“Hush.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “It’s a lot to face. You’re allowed to feel terrible about it.”

His tears stopped after a while, but he didn’t pull away, and Brienne didn’t let go of him, just kept carding his hair with one hand while her other rested sure and steady on his back. “You’re very kind to a useless cripple.”

“You’re not useless. And I don’t approve of the term _cripple_.”

She surprised a laugh out of him. “Of course you don’t, nanny wench.”

“Here, shift over a little,” Brienne said, nudging him to turn more sideways. “My foot’s gone to sleep. That’s better.”

“You shouldn’t be so kind to me, you know. If you knew –” The words were on his lips, but Jaime managed to bite them back. _No, don’t tell her, you witless fool. Whatever you do, don’t tell her._ “What I’m really like,” he finished lamely.

“I’ll be the judge of how kind I should be, thank you very much.” Her voice was very firm.

“There are things about me you don’t know.” _Awful things_. Things that would disgust her. _If I were a better man, I’d tell her. _But if he were a better man, he wouldn’t have fucked his cousin for just about all the years of her marriage to another man, and fathered all three of her children, and he’d have nothing to tell.

“I’m sure there are. There are also things about you I do know.”

He was too selfish to keep trying. “Have it your own way, wench.”

“Thank you for your permission to do what I intended to do anyway,” Brienne said serenely, making him laugh again. “Jaime, it will be alright. I know how awful things seem, but you can retrain, with your left hand.”

He shook his head without raising it from her shoulder. “That’ll take years. Years and years to get any good.”

“Years and years to get really good,” Brienne said. “But not nearly that long to look convincing in front of a camera. You’ll have to work hard. And you’ll have to get used to needing all the rehearsals to get the fights down, instead of picking them up in five minutes.”

“I don’t think I can face it,” Jaime admitted. “Starting all over again. Being _bad_ at the one thing I’m really good at. I guess that makes me a coward, but I don’t think I can face it.”

“The man who shouted _sapphires_ is not a coward, Jaime. The man who took a beating to spare me from one can face just about anything, including learning to fight with his left hand. You’ll see.”

“You have an unreasonably high opinion of me, wench.”

“I have faith you’ll justify it.”

And fuck, that meant he didn’t really have a choice, did he? He sat up. “You’ll have to come visit me in King’s Landing to see how I’m getting on, then.”

“If you’d like.”

“I would like, yes. Promise me?”

“Of course. I promise.”

“Mmm, I think I’d prefer a proper oath.”

Brienne’s forehead crinkled. “A proper oath? Um. I swear by the Mother. May I never know her mercy if I lie. I swear by the Father, and ask that he might judge me justly. I swear –” Jaime shook his head, and she stopped, looking confused. “Then what do you mean?”

Jaime grinned at her. “I told you I had something to give you, didn’t I? Wait here.”

The long thin parcel was where he’d left it, laid carefully on the bed. As he hefted it, Jaime was surprised not feel even a pang of regret. When the idea had come to him, he’d known it was a good one, but still, he’d expected to find it difficult when the moment actually came. Instead, it was possibly the easiest thing he’d ever done. _This is right._ Right in a bone-deep way, like a great bell tolling could be felt as much as heard.

He hurried back to the couch. “This isn’t exactly how it should be,” he said. “But I’m afraid a one-handed squire is about as useful as a one-handed swordsman. Stand up.”

Slowly, Brienne rose to her feet, and when Jaime held out the parcel, she took it cautiously. He saw her face change a little as she felt the weight, and put it together with the dimensions of the package. “A sword.”

Jaime nodded. “By rights, I should belt it on you, but there’s no way I’d manage. So you’ll just have to open it yourself.”

Being Brienne, she began to painstakingly remove each piece of tape, taking care not to rip the paper. Jaime fidgeted until she got enough unfolded to see the lion-head hilt, grasp it, and draw the sword and scabbard free.

“I’ll turn the lights up,” he said, hurrying to do just that.

For a moment Brienne only gazed at the hilt and scabbard; the ornate yet comfortable grip, the glinting red stones that made up the lion’s eyes, the intricate patterns still visible on the scabbard although their embossing had been worn down in places.

Then she tightened her grip on the hilt and drew the blade free.

And gasped. “Jaime, this is _Valyrian_ steel!”

He would have expected nothing less from his wench than to identify the smoky tone of the blade immediately. “Yes. It’s –”

“Priceless. The lion – it’s a family heirloom – is it Brightroar?”

“Brightroar was a greatsword, or so the stories say. And no-one’s seen it for more than a thousand years.” Brienne turned the blade this way and that, clearly as enraptured at the play of light along the blade as Jaime had been, the first time he’d seen it. “Give it a swing,” he suggested.

Brienne stared at him. “Have you gone mad? This is Valyrian steel. I could cut the couch in half with it.”

“You wouldn’t be so careless. Test the balance.”

With trepidation, Brienne raised the sword, moving slowly through the Ox, the Plow, the Fool, and finishing with Roof. She was not a woman who generally gave the impression of being graceful, but the fluid elegance of her movements, the absolute control, was beyond grace. It approached perfection. 

She lowered the sword, picked up the scabbard and sheathed it. “Thank you,” she said, offering it back to him. “To hold one of these … I never thought I’d have the chance.”

Jaime put his one good hand behind his back. “It’s not an experience, wench. It’s a gift. The sword is yours.”

Brienne’s brilliant blue eyes opened wide and she went so pale her freckles stood out like flecks of paint. “Jaime, it’s priceless. I couldn’t possibly –”

“As is my life to me, even such as it is. Lannisters always pay their debts. I wish to pay my debt to you, wench, so you’ll oblige me by accepting the sword.”

She looked down at it, and for a moment the longing was so open on her face Jaime felt as if he should look away, as if he’d walked in on her naked. “You also saved _my_ life. And I –” She blinked hard. “I should have done better.”

“Wench. Brienne. Come sit down with me a moment. Bring the sword.” She sat, and Jaime made sure to sit on her right so he could put his good left arm around her shoulders. For a moment she sat rigid, and then yielded to his gentle pressure to lean against him. “First of all, this isn’t the only one of these I own. Three years ago, the authorities broke up an antiquities smuggling ring in Pentos. Among the haul, they found two lion-hilted Valyrian steel swords with no provenance – stolen from a grave somewhere, no doubt.” He nodded towards the sword Brienne was holding protectively against her chest. “That’s one of them. The other is a little lighter, made for a smaller man no doubt – the sort of sword I might hope to wield with my left hand, one day. That one, no.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jaime laughed. “Alright, stubborn wench. Not for many years. So when I can beat you with my left hand, you can give it back. Until then, it belongs with someone who can wield it.” 

“Jaime, a sword like this should be in a museum. I mean, what am _I_ going to do with it? Run around Tarth smiting miscreants? It’s far too fine for practice. Not to mention Valyrian steel will utterly demolish any training dummy.”

“Just take it out of the scabbard every now and again and let it know it’s still needed,” Jaime said. “Swords need that. Even Valyrian steel ones, that never rust.”

“That’s nonsense,” Brienne said, but there was no conviction in her voice. 

“So let me tell you what _I_ think about this sword.” Jaime put his cast over her hand where it caressed the hilt. “There are fewer than twenty of these blades known to have existed.”

Brienne nodded. “Truth, Vigilance, Heartsbane, Longclaw –”

“Lady Forlorn, Nightfall, Red Rain, Ice,” Jaime finished. “The eight whose location is known. And then there’s Blackfyre, Brightroar, Dark Sister, Lamentation –”

“Orphan Maker, Oathkeeper, and Widow’s Wail.” Brienne nodded.

“This isn’t Brightroar, because it’s not a greatsword. Dark Sister and Blackfyre were swords of the dragon lords, they wouldn’t have a lion on the hilt. Orphan Maker came from the Reach, Lamentation came from the Vale. No lions, for either of them. But … you’ve heard the theories that Goldenhand was a Lannister?”

Brienne went very still. “Oathkeeper? You think this is Goldenhand’s sword?”

“It’s as good a story as any other,” Jaime said, instead of _Yes. Yes I do, because I want to believe that somewhere back in my family tree was a good and just man, a hero, because I want to believe there’s more in my blood than greed and pride and selfishness. _

Brienne caressed the scabbard tenderly. “Because there were two.”

“Very good, wench. Because the stories say there were two, Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail, and both the swords I bought have hilts of gilded steel lions, set with rubies.”

“Rubies?” Brienne nearly dropped the sword. 

“I’m sure they’re very low-carat ones,” Jaime said quickly, although in fact the jeweller he’d commissioned to value the swords for insurance had been rendered speechless at their quality. “But you see, two swords, one smaller …”

Brienne nodded. “The stories say that Goldenhand gave a sword to the Blue Knight. I mean, they probably didn’t even live at the same time.”

“What if they did?” Jaime asked. “What if Goldenhand was a Lannister? What if he had a lighter sword made for her – Widow’s Wail – two swords with Lannister lion hilts.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I have to play the damsel’s role, and wield the lighter sword, this time. But you see, Brienne, if Goldenhand was a Lannister, and the Blue Knight was an Evenstar, a Tarth of Tarth … I have to give you this, and you have to take it. It belongs to you, and you belong to it.”

Brienne gazed down at the sword, tears welling in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. “Oathkeeper.”

“Oathkeeper,” Jaime agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, I know it’s canonically impossible for Ice to have been reforged and for Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail still to exist, but remember, all the stories about the age of ice and fire are just legends in this modern Westeros. Who knows if Ice was truly reforged from the twin swords cast from it, or if it’s a later sword the Stark family claimed to be Ice? Who knows if Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail were truly made from Ice? This is the sort of thing people like Jaime debate endlessly on the Theories of Ice and Fire weirnet site. 
> 
> Also, in all the time that’s past, some swords have been found that were thought lost, and some lost that were thought found. Apologies for playing fast and loose with canon once again! As indeed I am with Jaime’s progress dealing with his injury and disability, that darn butterfly effect kicking in once again as a result of me deciding not to go with actual amputation. I always welcome concrit, so do let me know if I’m way off course.


	27. Brienne X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning.

It was a sharp corner digging into her ribs that finally prodded Brienne from sleep. She opened her eyes and looked at unfamiliar wallpaper and heavy curtains drawn across the window, then groped beneath her for whatever she’d fallen asleep on.

Her fingers closed on the shape of a lion and memory came flooding back.

_Oathkeeper_. Jaime’s hand warm and strong on her shoulder. _It belongs to you, and you belong to it._

They’d talked almost all night: about swords, about stories, about chivalry and what it meant. Jaime had insisted Brienne swear on the sword that she’d visit him in King’s Landing, although with a smile that she thought meant that he knew very well a simple promise would be enough to ensure it. They’d talked until Jaime’s chin was nodding toward his chest, and Brienne had hauled him up and chivvied him to bed –

And fallen into it with him, she remembered, as she became aware of the other unusual circumstance of her waking. Jaime had grabbed her arm as he tumbled into bed and pulled her with him. _Stay a minute_, he’d mumbled, and Brienne had truly meant to stay just that one minute, until Jaime slept. Instead, she’d fallen asleep herself, with her arms wrapped around Oathkeeper, but at some time during the night, Jaime wrapped his arms around _her_, and they were still there. He was pressed against her head to heel, close enough for her to feel his hip-bone against her backside.

She’d held him close during the long nights of their captivity, trying to keep him warm, and had been relieved when she’d felt him relax against her as he slipped into sleep – but she’d never understood _how_, exactly. What could one person’s flesh-and-blood arms do against bullets and blades? What comfort could an embrace provide, against the realities of a world where bad people hurt good ones, for no reason other than that they could?

As her body melted back into boneless limpness, Brienne still didn’t understand _why_, but for the first time she understood _how_. She was safe, in that moment, in the circle of Jaime’s arms. He was protecting her, even in his sleep, and it didn’t matter how effective that might be: _I have you_, he was saying silently. _I’m here._

It was complete nonsense, and yet she closed her eyes and drifted away again, one hand on the hilt of her sword and the other resting over Jaime’s around her waist, utterly safe and secure.

She wasn’t sure how much later she woke again to Jaime’s whisper. “Brienne. Wench. You need to wake up.”

His arm was still around her waist and she could feel his lips against the back of her neck as he spoke. It made her shiver, as if she was cold. “Jaime?”

“You have a flight to catch. And you should have breakfast, first. What do you want?”

_I’m definitely still dreaming_. Brienne Tarth did not lead the sort of life that led to waking up in bed with a movie star, clutching a priceless Valyrian steel sword, and having said movie star ask her what she wanted for breakfast. That was not how the world worked. Ergo, the entire previous evening had been a dream, and this was still a dream, and as long as she didn’t wake up, she could stay in the dream. She laced her fingers through his and rolled over, pulling dream Jaime with her.

He chuckled softly, breath stirring her hair. “Alright. I take the hint. I need my hand back for a moment, though.” He disentangled himself gently, and a moment later Brienne heard him talking to someone else. “Peck. Later flight. No, fuck it, pay the penalty. Yes. That should be fine. Alright, bye.” His arm came around her again and he settled against her back. “Go back to sleep, Brienne.”

“I am asleep,” Brienne pointed out.

“Yes, you are,” Jaime said. Because it was her dream, he said it tenderly, the way someone like Jaime Lannister would never speak to someone like Brienne Tarth. 

“Jaime,” she said, and slipped down into warm darkness again.

When she woke again, she was alone in the bed – apart from the priceless Valyrian steel sword cradled in her arms. She looked down at the lion crest on the hilt. _So that, at least, was real_. A quick check confirmed that she was, at least, completely dressed. After setting the sword carefully on the dresser, she used the en suite, and then cracked the door to the rest of the suite and peered cautiously through.

Jaime was lounging on the couch – anyone else would have been _lying_, or even _sprawling_, but Jaime was definitely lounging – trying to balance a cup of tea or coffee and the electronic tablet on his lap.

“Good morning,” Brienne said cautiously. _I didn’t dream the sword_. But surely she’d dreamt that lovely feeling of being wrapped, safe and cherished, in his arms?

He tilted his head back and gave her a sweet, uncomplicated smile. “Good morning. There’s eggs and bacon on the table, but if they’re cold, order whatever you want.”

Her stomach gave a fierce growl and she headed for the dining table. Neither the scrambled eggs nor the bacon under the covers were more than lukewarm, but Brienne was too hungry to care. She ate every scrap and finished up with four pieces of room-temperature toast.

She looked up to realise Jaime had been watching her, a faint smile of amusement playing around his mouth. Realising how greedy she’d been, Brienne looked down, feeling her face scald. “Sorry. Were you …?”

“I ate my half a fucking grapefruit already. In an hour, I can have five almonds.”

“That’s horrendous,” Brienne said involuntarily.

Jaime’s smile spread to a grin, and he bounced off the couch with far more energy than Brienne could have summoned on one half of a grapefruit. “It is,” he said, coming to stand behind her and lean over her shoulder. “But at least I can smell your breakfast and imagine what it will be like when I can eat properly again.” He sniffed theatrically. “At this point, I’d sell my own mother into slavery for bacon.”

“That’s a good enough reason to train left-handed,” Brienne said, remembering at least part of last night’s conversation. “For bacon.”

Jaime’s face shut down like a book slamming shut. “Thanks, wench. That hadn’t occurred to me.”

“Jaime …”

He wheeled away from her. “Your flight is in four hours. You’ve plenty of time for a shower.”

_Well._ Brienne went to wash her hair with hotel shampoo and the rest of her with hotel bodywash. The sword might not have been a dream, but the rest of it clearly was. Her bags were still in her car, so she put on yesterday’s clothes, combed her hair with her fingers, and made hotel mouthwash do the duty of toothbrush and toothpaste.

She squared her shoulders and looked in the mirror. At least her dull, straw-coloured hair was tidy for once, but there was nothing to be done for her broad face with its blotchy freckles, crooked nose and fat, puffy mouth except to make sure it was clean, and nothing at all to be done for her bulky, mannish figure.

It had been a sweet dream, but it had been just a dream, and now she was awake, in a world where women like her were not held tenderly by anyone. _Let alone by men like Jaime Lannister._

Carrying Oathkeeper, she went back into the living room. “I don’t think I can take this, Jaime. I can’t take it on the plane, and I daren’t put in in my checked luggage.”

Jaime was back on the couch. “You can take it on the plane,” he said without looking up from his tablet.

“Jaime, it’s a _sword_,” Brienne said patiently.

“It’s also an antique. The certificate’s in that envelope on the table. Just show it at check-in. They’ll take it off you when you board, lock it up safely, and give it back at the other end.”

Brienne looked at the scabbarded sword in her hands. “Really?”

He did look up then. “How do you think I got it up here? Tyrion might have left me Bronn to run my errands, but even Bronn would draw the line at driving to King’s Landing and back.”

“It’s still … it’s really valuable.”

Jaime sighed. “Wench, we went through this last night. It belongs to me, and I can do what I want with it, and what I want is to give it to you. If you want to consider it a loan, suit yourself. But it’s useless to me, now, and there’s no point both it _and_ me being so.”

“You’re not –”

“Wench, take the sword, take the envelope, and go on with you before you miss this flight as well,” Jaime snapped.

Brienne swallowed. “Yes,” she said humbly. “Thank you.” She found the envelope and put it carefully in her pocket, then set the sword down gently on the table to scramble into her coat. “I –”

As always, she was hopelessly tongue-tied when it came to saying anything that really mattered. She picked up Oathkeeper, and went to the door.

“Goodbye, Jaime,” she said, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, as far as I know there is no special provision for flying with antique super-sharp swords in real life. However, this is modern Westeros, where the rules are clearly different.


	28. Brienne XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne flies south.

Brienne unloaded her bags from her rental car, dropped the keys in the designated box, and made her way into the terminal.

Jaime turned out to be right: there was surprisingly little fuss at the Moat Cailin airport at Brienne carrying a full-sized razor-sharp sword onto the plane. The flight attendant took it from her without comment, although, Brienne was pleased to see, the slender young woman handled it with appropriate delicacy, and stowed it in a padded compartment that she locked.

Also surprisingly, she found her ticket was first class. It was not a particularly luxurious first class on Reed Air, not like the hushed elegance and enormous padded seats she’d walked past on her way to economy on other airlines, but it did have enough welcome extra legroom that Brienne could hope to arrive without muscle cramps, for once – and it was close enough to the front of the plane for her to keep an eye on the compartment that held Oathkeeper.

_It probably isn’t Oathkeeper_, she reminded herself. _That’s just one of Jaime’s stories_. And Jaime might think that stories were better than facts, but that was because Jaime lived in the sort of rarefied world of celebrity where facts could be bent and twisted and changed to suit whatever story was being told. _Even if that story is stupid, and wrong, and unfair. _Even if it was the lie about Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, heartless cad and real-life villain. _Of course he doesn’t think the facts matter – when have the facts about _him_ ever mattered to anyone?_

Brienne, though, lived in the world of facts, and always had. She was more than six feet tall, that was a fact. She could bench press as much as most men – as any man who wasn’t Sandor Clegane, really – and she could beat almost anyone in a fight with or without a weapon. Those were facts. She was also ugly enough to curdle milk and clumsy enough in everyday life to constitute a hazard to herself and others, more facts. There wasn’t a story that could change any of that, no matter how much she’d wished it were true when she was younger. That one of the Children of the Forest would appear in front of her and grant her three wishes to be small, and delicate, and beautiful, that had been a story she’d told herself for an embarrassingly long time. When she’d given up on that one, there’d been the stories about how her size and strength would be such an advantage as a law enforcement officer that the men of the Gold Cloaks would admire her, rather than sneer; about how her skill with a sword would make everyone in the Ice and Fire Re-enactment Society see her as a warrior, and not a freak; about how next year, or the one after, or the one after that, would finally be the year when she stopped tripping over her own tongue and her own feet.

But stories weren’t true for people like Brienne Tarth.

“Would you like something to eat?” the flight attendant asked, startling her from her morose thoughts. “Or a snack, or a drink?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Brienne said.

The woman hesitated a moment. “Can I ask you something, Miss Tarth?”

Brienne blinked at her. _Of course, my name was on my ticket. This is what it’s like to be rich enough to fly first class – people learn your name. _“Yes, of course you can.”

“I want to enter in the Light Armour Class at the Faire next year, but my father says I’m too small. Do you think I am?”

Brienne stared at her for several seconds before she pulled herself together. “How, um. Old are you?”

“Nineteen.” The woman looked down at herself. “So I’m not going to grow any more.”

“Well, um. Speed does count for a lot, but reach is important too. And strength. Um. You can’t avoid _every_ blow, so if one lands hard on your shield, you need to be able to take it.” Brienne eyed the woman’s slender arms. “Um. Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Meera, Meera Reed.”

“Like the airline?”

“Family business,” Meera said. “My dad’s actually the one flying the plane.”

“Well, um. Meera. Small people can do quite well, but I think you’d need to work on being more muscular. But there’s always the unarmoured classes. Strength really doesn’t matter much at all in those, it’s all speed. Um. The Braavos style, for example.”

“I’m fast,” Meera said.

“I don’t know much about it – I was never nearly graceful enough to even think about learning – but I do know someone who takes lessons. If you want, I could ask her – I mean, if you wouldn’t mind – I could try and put you in touch with her?”

Meera beamed. “Oh, that would be brilliant! Thank you so much. I can give you my number?”

Brienne dug out her phone, and entered the number Meera gave her. “I don’t know if … well, at least I can find out about classes?”

Meera nodded. “That’s so nice of you. I didn’t think you’d be so nice, you wouldn’t believe how I’ve been getting my guts up to talk to you.” 

Brienne looked down. “No, I get it.” _I’m a great hulking freak who scares children and women grown._

“You’re so fierce when you fight,” Meera said. “I mean, I guess everyone is, but you’re the fiercest. Is that why you win?”

“I think I win because I practice a lot,” Brienne said, surprised all over again. “I – have you seen me fight?”

“Only on the weirnet. Summer is our busiest time, so I’ve never actually been to one of the tourneys. If I’d known you were going to be on this flight, I would have brought my poster for you to sign.”

Brienne blinked. “Poster?”

“Well, it’s not _of_ you, but it’s the one of the Blue Knight, from _Stories of Ice, Fire and Heroes_. It looks like you, though.”

“I’m not the Blue Knight, though,” Brienne said. “She was a knight, and a hero. I’m just … well, unemployed, really. But, uh, I’ll make sure to find out about, um. Different styles of fighting.”

With another beaming smile, Meera Reed hurried away to deal with one of the other passengers, who was demanding a third G&T. Brienne didn’t see her again until the plane landed at King’s Landing, and Meera ceremoniously unlocked the compartment and handed Oathkeeper to Brienne. 

Clutching her sword, Brienne made her way across the tarmac and into the bustling terminal. _Carousel fifteen H_, she recited to herself as she made her way through arrivals. _Carousel fifteen H. Carousel –_

_Brienne Tarth_, said the large sign held by a skinny boy in the middle of the concourse, standing beside a trolley which held what were unmistakably Brienne’s bags. 

She approached him with considerable trepidation. “Hello? I’m, um. Her.”

“Brienne Tarth?” He lowered the sign, and offered his hand. “I’m Jos Peckledon, but everyone calls me Peck. Mr Jaime asked me to make sure you got to your connecting flight, but I couldn’t find which one it was?”

Brienne shook his hand carefully. _Peck_. The Peck that Jaime talked to on the phone. “I’m taking the bus.”

“Oh, well, I can drive you to wherever you’re going,” Peck said cheerfully.

“I’m going to Storm’s End?”

Peck blinked. “On the _bus_?” Young as he looked, Brienne almost expected his voice to break on that squeak of surprise. “But that’s …”

_Cheaper._ “I’m taking the ferry to Tarth. The bus connection is more efficient.”

“I’ll drive you to Storm’s End, then,” Peck said.

It was Brienne’s turn to stare in surprise. “You can’t drive me all the way to Storm’s End!”

“Mr Jaime told me to make sure you got to where you were going. If that’s the ferry to Tarth, I have to make sure you get to the ferry to Tarth,” Peck said firmly. “He was very specific, Miss Tarth. And I’d like to keep my job. Please. My car’s this way.” He took hold of the handles of the trolley. “I mean, Mr Jaime’s car, really, but it’s the one I use.”

Slightly bemused, Brienne trailed Peck out of the terminal as he led the way to a sleek black SVU parked in the priority zone. He opened the door to the backseat for her as if she were someone important, then loaded her bags into the boot. Brienne set Oathkeeper carefully on the seat beside her and buckled her seatbelt.

As Peck slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, Brienne took out her phone. _I’ve been kidnapped by your assistant Peck_, she typed, and pressed ‘send’ before she could reconsider.

_Remind m to give hm a riase_ came back almost immediately.

Brienne bit her lip for a moment. _Mr Jaime? _she sent at last.

_Compromise, _Jaime answered._ Ws ur flight ok? _

_Fine. Sword is safe._

_Yes, wench. Oathkeepr was m only concrn. _

_Peck is insisting on dirivng me to Storm’s End. I was going to take the bus_, she sent.

Her phone squawked almost immediately. _Jaime L calling_ appeared on the screen below the flapping raven that signified an incoming call. Brienne pressed _accept_ and raised the phone to her ear.

“You’re upset,” Jaime said, without preamble.

“I’m not –”

“Did Peck say something or do something –”

“No! He’s … perfectly fine and nice and is driving me to Storm’s End. Which is extremely nice of him. I’m not upset. About him or anything.”

“The typo says otherwise,” Jaime shot back.

“You make typos all the time.”

“_You_ don’t.” He was silent a moment. “Brienne. You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If you were – if there was something – you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

The man who’d given her Oathkeeper – the man she’d imagined holding her in her sleep – and yet he was also the man who’d been so coolly dismissive that very morning … Brienne closed her eyes against the sudden threat of tears. “Nothing’s wrong, Jaime. It was just a typo.”

“And the flight was fine.”

“Yes. Um. The flight attendant wants to fight in the next tourney. So I talked to her about it, a bit. And it was all fine.”

“But you’re upset.”

“I’m _not_ upset!” Brienne snapped. _Don’t cry. You mustn’t cry. It’s not his fault you’re a great hulking giant of an idiot who wants things you can’t have. Don’t cry_.

Jaime was silent a moment. “So you’re taking the ferry rather than a seaplane?”

“Dad’s house is a lot closer to the ferry dock than where the seaplanes land. It’s actually almost faster to take the bus and ferry, and at this time of year the planes get delayed a lot, so …”

“My practical, sensible wench. And are there taxis on Tarth, to get you home?”

“I’ll call Dad when I know which ferry I’m on. He’ll meet me.”

Another silence. “Ah, what a strange world you live in, Brienne Tarth.”

“Not so strange,” she said quickly. “You’d meet Tyrion’s ferry. I mean, he flew the length of the country when you were hurt. So it’s not so strange.”

“Tell me about your father.”

“My father?”

Jaime chuckled. “Brienne. I’m stuck here for two more days. I’m bored to tears. Tell me a story. Tell me a story about your father, the heroic Selwyn Tarth.”

“How did you know he was heroic?” Brienne asked. “Have you been looking him up?”

This time his laugh was louder than a chuckle. “No, I just guessed, based on his daughter. So tell me about him.”

“Well, he joined the Tarth Watch when he was just seventeen – he lied about his age. He finished school early, he was advanced a year –”

“So you get your brains from him, as well.”

“I’m not clever,” Brienne said quickly. _Thick as a castle wall_, her teachers had said.

“I beg to differ.” There was a sudden clatter. “Sorry. Dropped the phone. So he joined the Tarth Watch at seventeen. And then?”

“We have some problems with pirates on Tarth – are you sure you don’t know this?”

“Wench, if it involves pirates, I’m fairly certain I would have raised it with you before now. I mean, _pirates_? Do they have eyepatches? Peg-legs? Parrots?”

“Not those kind of pirates, not like the stories of the Ironborn. Modern pirates. With guns. Anyway, one lot took over a ship and held the crew hostage and Dad … well, everyone was waiting for a specialist team from the Rainbow Guard, and then they killed one of the hostages, so Dad took out an inflatable dinghy and … he dealt with it.”

“By himself?”

Brienne nodded, then realised he couldn’t see her. “Yes.”

“How many were there?”

“Five.”

“One against five?” Jaime gave a low whistle. “Remind me to never get on your father’s bad side.”

“He picked them off,” Brienne said. “It wasn’t all of them at once. And it’s not like he killed them, or anything. Well. One went overboard.”

“I see where you get it from, though. How old was he?”

“Twenty.”

“I am feeling remarkably inadequate and emasculated,” Jaime said on a huff of laughter. “When I was twenty I was waving a rubber sword around and declaring myself the lord of Castamere.”

Brienne frowned. “Really? I mean … you said you always play, well. The villain. Weren’t the Castameres the heroes?”

“No, they died in the end, which means they were the villains. The good end happily, the bad unhappily, those are the rules. _And so it goes, and so it goes …_” Jaime’s singing voice was as lovely as his speaking voice. “_That lord of Castamere_ …”

“It’s _and so he spoke_,” Brienne said. “And so he spoke, and so he spoke, those are the words.”

“Well, you sing it, then.”

“I can’t sing!”

“Everyone can sing.”

“Not me,” Brienne said firmly.

“Oh, come on” Jaime said teasingly. “You mean that at a Mance Rayder concert you don’t sing along to the chorus of _The Lusty Lad _or_ My Lady Wife_?” 

“I’ve never been to a Mance Rayder concert.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “You don’t like Mance Rayder.”

“Of _course_ I like Mance Rayder,” Brienne said, indignant. “I’ve just never been to one of his concerts.”

Jaime laughed. “That’s a relief. For a minute there I thought I was going to have to delete your number and block your calls. Have you heard his new album?”

“_Yes_, of course.”

“Of course,” Jaime said, and for a moment Brienne could almost delude herself that there was tenderness in his tone. “Wench, I have an appointment with my physio that I’m in imminent danger of being late for. Let me know when you’re on the ferry, and when you land, will you?”

“Yes,” Brienne said. She thought back to some of his previous texts. “There’s no reception in the middle of Shipbreaker Bay, so if I don’t answer for a bit, there’s no need to call Air-Sea Rescue, alright?”

Jaime paused. “You’re taking a fucking ferry across something called Shipbreaker fucking Bay? In winter?”

“It’s an old name,” Brienne said quickly. “Like, from before engines. It’s been a very long time since a ferry went down.”

“How fucking long?” Jaime demanded fiercely. “Brienne?”

“Forever,” Brienne said. “The worst of the rocks were blasted out decades ago.”

“Rocks,” Jaime said flatly. “The worst – so the rest are still there?”

“Jaime, it’s fine. I’ve taken the ferry fifty times, at least. They have a perfect safety record.”

He was silent for several minutes. Brienne watched the deep green trees of the Kingswood flash past the car’s windows. “You’ll let me know when you get there?”

“I will,” Brienne promised. “Go meet your physio.”

“Brienne,” Jaime said very softly, and then suddenly she was listening to a dial tone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good end happily, the bad unhappily, is a quote from Oscar Wilde.


	29. Jaime XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime endures physiotherapy and learns House Mormont's unofficial words.

Jaime could hear his phone buzzing in his bag.

“I told you to turn it off or leave it outside,” Maege Mormont said sternly. To emphasise her point, she pushed his shoulder further into the mat. 

_Fuck_. Weeks without exercise had severely limited Jaime’s flexibility, and the stretch _hurt. _ “I’m expecting an important call. A _family_ call,” Jaime said. He made his face earnest and sincere. “My cousin …”

Maege was a tyrant, but she was also a Northerner, and so she let him go and sat back on her heels. “Be quick.”

“Yes,” Jaime promised. He scrambled to his feet and jogged over to his bag, digging out his phone.

_One new message. _He clicked on the image of the raven.

17:22: _Blue Brienne: Safe on shore. Stop worrying._

_Thanks_, Jaime typed as quickly as he could with one thumb, sent the message, and shoved his phone back into his bag. “Sorry,” he said to Maege Mormont.

“Family’s family,” she said gruffly. “Give me your arm.”

Instinctively, Jaime reached out with his right arm, stared at the cast and froze.

Maege grabbed his left wrist, hauled him toward her and swept his feet from beneath him. Amazingly, Jaime managed to land on his side, cushioning his right hand, but he was comprehensively pinned. “You only have one hand you can rely on,” Maege said. “You need to learn that.”

“I have,” Jaime snapped, trying to heave her off him.

“You haven’t.” She held him still effortlessly. “I’ve read your medical reports. You signed a release, remember? You’ll never get back what you –”

“Fuck you!” Jaime snarled. He heaved with all his strength, got his ankle hooked around Maege’s and flipped them over. Her grip loosened with the impact – he managed to twist and got his good hand around her arm, leaning hard on her other arm with his cast. “_Fuck you_!” he roared in her face. 

“So you are still alive in there,” Maege said calmly. “I did wonder.”

He let her go, flinging himself backwards. “If this is some fucking mind-game you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine –”

“I’m a Mormont, we come from where the sun doesn’t shine.” Maege crossed her legs and rested her hands on her knees. “I also have a father with one leg. I’m from Bear Island, and I’d be back there if there was a way for any of us to earn a living. I’m super sorry you can’t write with your right hand any more, Mister Movie Star. But you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t think it’s the worst thing in the world that anyone could have happen to them. So suck it up, and do the work.”

Jaime raked his fingers though his hair. “I’m sorry about your father.”

“Dad is more use than you are, right now,” Maege said. “You know what our house words are?”

“Here I stand,” Jaime said, because everyone knew what the Mormont words were. Ser Jorah Mormont had played enough of a role in the war of ice and fire to ensure that, although no-one really knew exactly what that role had been.

“Official words, yes. But the common saying?” Maege looked at him expressionlessly. “Harden the fuck up.”

Jaime blinked at her. “That doesn’t sound …”

Maege unfolded her legs and rose effortlessly to her feet. “Harden the fuck up, Jaime Lannister.”

Jaime glared at her for a moment, then got to his feet._ Thank god I’m going home in a few days. _He’d find a physiotherapist in King’s Landing, one a little less combative than fierce, solid Maege Mormont. _Still, I suppose if you come from an island in the middle of what’s called the Bay of _Ice_, you have to be fairly fierce just to keep from killing yourself to get away from the cold. _“Consider me chastened,” he drawled. “What’s next?”

_What’s next_ was more torture. By the time Maege dismissed him, Jaime was drenched in sweat and his legs were so rubbery he was relieved to have Bronn waiting outside to drive him the three blocks back to the hotel. He managed to tape a plastic bag over his cast and stood in the shower until the hot water soothed at least some of his aches, wrapped himself in the complimentary bathrobe and dutifully – if unenthusiastically – ordered an eggwhite omelette with spinach.

He took out his phone while he waited for it to arrive. _Wench you wd like my pyshio. _

_How was it?_ Brienne answered after a moment.

_Painful. Tiring. She’s a tyrnt. _

_If by that you mean she can keep you in line, I do like her already._

Jaime laughed aloud. _Dd ru dd mte yr effry?_

_Have you thought about some kind of voice recognition program? _

_U shd not mock teh disabled._

_I wasn’t, _she answered swiftly._ I was mocking someone unable to enable autocorrect. _

_Did ur dad meet ur ferry? _Jaime tapped out painstakingly.

_ Yes. _

_What r u doing?_

_Watching Dad gut fish. You?_

_Waiting for my depressing dinner. Egg whte omelette. _

_We’re having baked tuna,_ his heartless wench replied._ And oysters. _

_I hate u._

_Brienne?_

_I don’t hate u._

_Brienne?_

_Don’t b mad I was joking._

_Brienne?_

He sighed with relief when she finally responded. _Jaime I’m cooking, not mad. I know you were joking._

A tap on the door heralded room service. His pitiful omelette was ushered in on a trolley, set before him, and unveiled with great ceremony. Jaime regarded it mournfully, then took a picture and sent it to Brienne. _See wat I have to endrue? _

Cruel woman that she was, Brienne sent back a picture of a giant tuna steak with at least a dozen empty oyster shells on a plate in the background.

Jaime ate his dinner, managed to put the plate outside the door without dropping it, and went to sulk on the couch. None of the infinite variety of movies and television shows available seemed even remotely tolerable. He endured a few minutes of an early series episode of _Sunspear Vice _but Arys Oakheart was as intensely irritating as the high-fashion undercover detective as Jaime remembered. He eyed the tablet on the coffee table, but as a general rule he tried to keep a rule of staying away from news and social media after dinner to avoid ruining his digestion and any chance of a decent night’s sleep by seeing what Baelish’s press-pack were saying about him at the moment.

He picked up his phone again. _How was ur dinner?_ he typed.

_Delicious. How was yours?_

_Healthy. _It took him several minutes to find the emojis and another minute to locate the one of the crying crow to add to the message. He hesitated, then tapped out _R u busy?_

A moment later his phone squawked. _Blue Brienne calling. _

“Hey,” she said, when he answered.

“My thumb was cramping,” Jaime said.

“Well you do text an awful lot,” Brienne said. 

“Sorry. I just – well. I won’t bother you so much.”

“It’s alright,” Brienne said quietly. “I don’t – I don’t really mind. Just, I can’t always answer. Straight away.”

“Because you have things to do, whereas I can’t actually _do_ anything, anymore.” Jaime could hear the whining note of self-pity in his own voice and he hated it. “Wench. Ignore me. I’m just …”

“Tell me about your physiotherapist,” Brienne said, over the faint sound of clinking crockery.

“She’s a Mormont. A real Bear Island Mormont. Apparently their unofficial House words are _harden the fuck up_.”

“Mmm, I can see why they’re _unofficial_. That would be awkward to embroider on a banner.”

He laughed. “She tortured me for hours. I could hardly walk when she was done with me.”

“It’ll come back soon enough,” Brienne said confidently. “You can’t expect to not have lost a step or two after weeks in hospital.”

“She made me turn off my phone.”

“That _must_ have been torture,” Brienne said, and made him laugh again.

“How’s Oathkeeper?” he asked.

“Locked in Dad’s safe.”

“Wench, you can’t keep it locked up! What if you need it?”

Brienne snorted. “What on earth would I need it for?”

“What if the pirates came?”

“Jaime, they’re pirates. They don’t come on land.”

“They could,” he countered. “I mean, they’re pirates, not mermen.” He paused. “Or are they mermen? Pirate mermen? Mermen pirates?”

“I think someone would have mentioned it if they were merfolk,” Brienne said dryly.

“People never mention the really important, interesting details,” Jaime said airily.

“Such as?”

“How many legs a dragon has,” he said promptly. “Fire, yes, everyone wrote about the fire, and the flying, but when it came to legs?”

“They probably had other things on their minds, like being on fire.”

“You have the imagination of an accountant,” Jaime told her.

“Given the three months I did in Fraud when I was with the Gold Cloaks, I can tell you that accountants can have imaginations that would put yours to shame. Anyway, dragons have four legs.”

“Or two.”

“If they have two legs they’re wyverns, although I imagine the distinction is fairly irrelevant when they’re burning you to a cinder.”

“You’re quite definitive in your taxonomy of imaginary beasts.”

“I also know the difference between a mermaid and a selkie.”

Jaime chuckled. “Hidden depths.”

“Well, you never know when you’re going to be required to smite something and need to know its weak points, or so I told myself when I was memorising the entire contents of _Natural and Unnatural Beasts and Creatures_ at the age of seven.”

“Reassuring to know that if the mermaid pirates attack, you’re prepared.”

“Yes, I am most definitely safe from merfolk pirates,” Brienne agreed. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” Jaime said, because he actually was. “Thank you for cheering me up, wench.”

“It’ll get easier, Jaime. It’ll be difficult, and boring, but it will be easier than it is right now.”

“I’m looking forward to getting back to King’s Landing and a physiotherapist who’s a little less cruel.”

Brienne paused. “Jaime, are you really rich?”

“Not by Lannister standards, but by everyone else’s, yes, I’m quite rich.”

“Then you should think about hiring Sandor Clegane to train you. I know he doesn’t have another job lined up, _Oathkeeper_ was supposed to run through to the spring. And … I mean, if you mentioned it in an interview, he’d probably get some other work in King’s Landing through the winter, too.”

“Mmm. That’s actually a good idea, wench. And will you come and visit, and train with me?”

“I already said I’d come and visit, so, yes.” 

“Has anyone been bothering you? Journalists, or photographers?”

Brienne laughed. “Jaime. This is _Tarth_. How would anyone even find me to bother me?”

“Apart from merfolk pirates.”

“Apart from them,” she agreed. “Anyway, there’s so many Tarths on Tarth that they’d never work out which of them I was related to, and if they did they’d have to drive all the way to Evenfall and work out which dilapidated house is Dad’s, and by then eighteen people would have called Dad to warn him and he’d deal with them.”

“Eighteen people?”

“At least. This is Tarth. We don’t have visitors, certainly not at this time of year.”

“And what would your father do? Shoot them?”

“He does quite a nice turn as a crazy old man. He’s also taller than me. I challenge any big-city paparazzi to hold their nerve when a six-foot-five maniac with hair and beard straight out of _The Karhold Chainsaw Massacre_ is offering to personally baptise them into the church of the Drowned God.”

Jaime guffawed at the mental image. “Does he hire out? Because I can think of times in my life that would have been fucking useful.”

“I can ask,” Brienne said. “Jaime. Can I ask you to do something?”

“Of course, wench,” he said instantly. “Do you need money?”

Brienne snorted. “No, Jaime, I don’t need money, and if I did, I’d ask Dad. It’s about what you said yesterday, about how you were going to arrange to be caught cheating on Beth.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be cheating,” he pointed out. “Since Beth and I –”

“I understand the logistics,” Brienne said patiently. “But I think you should reconsider. I’d like it if you’d reconsider.”

“It’s just a story –”

“Make it a different one, then. Get in touch with her and suggest that you both say something like, it was nice while it lasted, but you mutually agreed that long-distance relationships don’t work, and amicably called it quits.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t need to play into their hands, Jaime –”

“Why don’t long-distance relationships work?”

Brienne sighed. “I don’t know, I’ve never had one. It’s just something people say.”

“We’re at a long distance right now,” he pointed out.

“We’re not in a relationship – and anyway, that’s not the point, is it? The point is the story. You keep saying that.”

“An amicable breakup isn’t much of a story.”

“Good,” Brienne said.

“I have to feed the beast, wench.” He paused. “Why does it bother you, anyway?”

“I don’t like people saying mean things about my friends.”

Jaime smiled. “You said quite a few mean things about me yourself, as I recall.”

“That was before I knew you, and I was wrong, and I apologise. _And_ I wouldn’t have been wrong if you hadn’t spent the past decade making yourself out to be the biggest drunken womaniser in Westeros.”

“So it’s my fault you insulted me?” Jaime made his tone wounded.

Brienne refused to bite. “In part, at least. But … if this was a movie, this would be the part where the protagonist re-evaluates his life as a consequence of a near-death experience, turns over a new leaf, and becomes a better man. Isn’t _that_ a much better story than hard-partying bad boy continues to party hard? Sooner or later people are going to lose interest in your starlets and sportscars and speeding tickets.”

“Mmm. What about you? Where are you in your made-for-TV biopic?”

“I’m the protagonist’s sidekick. I don’t get a story arc. Unless I die before the end, in which case I have a wife expecting our first child.”

“And the final scene will be me telling it all about how you were the real hero.”

“You’ve got it exactly,” Brienne agreed.

“Wench, you are definitely not anyone’s sidekick. I wouldn’t give Oathkeeper to a sidekick.”

“Lend.”

“If you like.” He paused. “I’ll think about what you said. _If_ you promise to take Oathkeeper out of the safe, so I know you’re able to defend yourself from mermaids.”

“Jaime …”

“Or I won’t be able to sleep for worrying. I’ll be imagining them swimming up your front path –”

“Dad’s house is on land, Jaime.”

“Flopping, then. Flopping up your front path –”

“I think I’d probably be able to outdistance merfolk on land fairly easily.”

“They could be wily. Cut off your retreat. Trip you with their fins when you try to run. I’ll have nightmares, Brienne. And I’m still recovering. I need my sleep.”

“Jaime,” Brienne said helplessly.

“Or there could be a dragon. Or a wyvern.”

“There could _not_ be a dragon or a wyvern, Jaime.”

“I’ll worry all night. I might have to text you every hour to make sure you’re alright.”

“You would, too, wouldn’t you?”

“Believe it,” Jaime said cheerfully.

“Do you do this to all your friends?”

“Only the ones I give swords to,” Jaime said, quite truthfully.

Brienne sighed gustily. “Fine. I will take the sword from the safe, I will put it under my bed, and if I am attacked by merfolk, selkies, dragons, wyverns, basilisks, harpies, krakens, giant ice-spiders, manticores, griffins, centaurs, or phantom tortoises, I will be equipped to defend myself.”

“That’s a great weight off my mind,” Jaime said as sincerely as he could. “Although I don’t think a phantom tortoise would be much of a challenge –”

“Good night, Jaime,” Brienne said firmly.

“Good night, wench.”


	30. Jaime XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime returns to King's Landing.

Jaime endured two more physiotherapy sessions with Maege Mormont before he was cleared to fly and then he left the North behind with nothing but relief. He longed to get home to his old life, to his familiar things and his usual routines.

It took less than an hour from Peck delivering him to his apartment on Aegon’s Hill for Jaime to realise that all of those things were now beyond his reach.

His old life? Training and working out between films, occasionally playing clotheshorse on a red carpet, making sure to be photographed at the latest ‘in’ café or restaurant or gallery. But he despised running on the treadmill and loathed the stationary bicycle, and he could hardly use a rowing machine or hit a punching bag with one hand in a cast and likely useless forever, could he? Designers would pay him _not_ to wear their clothes with one arm in an increasingly ratty cast, and anyone taking his photograph right now would be looking for evidence that he was crippled for life.

His familiar things? Working the coffee-maker one-handed was beyond him, the television remote was an exercise in frustration that generally ended up with him either giving up and watching whatever he happened to land on or throwing the thing at the wall. He couldn’t manage to make the computer mouse do what he wanted with his left hand and even when he managed to open the _Theories of Ice and Fire_ weirnet site there was no chance he could type well enough to tell any of the idiots posting ideas about the Long Night why they were comprehensively wrong.

His usual routines? Even going downstairs for a coffee earned him cloyingly sympathetic looks to his face and murmured comments behind his back. That was enough: Jaime went back to his apartment, shut the door, and flung himself down on the couch.

He ignored his phone the first five times it squawked with a text notification. The sixth time, he picked it up only reluctantly.

13:22 Blue Brienne: _I think herring are overrated._ _Or should that be is overrated? What’s the plural of herring, do you know?_

13:58 Blue Brienne: [A picture of an absolute giant of a man with wild white hair and beard, holding up what looked like some sort of shark nearly as long as he was tall.]

13:58 Blue Brienne: _Dad caught this. We’ll be eating it all week. I am now jealous of your omelettes. _

14:54 Blue Brienne: _Still no merfolk, for your peace of mind. _

15:39 Blue Brienne: _I think I saw a selkie, though, but they’re only dangerous if you marry them._

16:55 Blue Brienne: _Jaime? Can you call, please, if you have time?_

Jaime sat bolt upright, found _Blue Brienne_ in his contacts and hit the raven symbol. It squawked, squawked once more –

“Hello,” Brienne said, and Jaime began to breathe again.

“What happened?” he asked. “Are you alright? Is it your father? What do you need –”

“Jaime, Jaime, nothing’s wrong,” Brienne said quickly. “I just – you were very quiet. For you.”

“Oh.” He sank back on the couch. “I – wench. I thought the merfolk had got you.”

“No,” she said gently. “Are you alright?”

“Day hasn’t been great.” Shameful tears threatened again and he blinked hard and steadied his breathing. “It turns out you really can’t go home again.”

“Mmm,” Brienne said. “You know, there is something you can do for me. Can you recommend a decent budget hotel in King’s Landing? I have to pop back over for a day or so.”

“You can stay here,” Jaime said instantly. “I have a spare room. I have two spare rooms, actually.”

“Well, I –”

“Brienne, please stay here.” He was begging, he knew, unable to keep the naked pleading out of his voice. “Brienne.”

“Of course,” she said after a pause. “Of course I will, Jaime. I was going to come tomorrow, if that’s alright?”

“That’s alright, yes, it’s fine, that’s fine,” he babbled before he managed to pull himself together and put a leash on his tongue. “What time?”

“I’m not sure. Can I text you when I know?”

“Yes. Yes, you can, absolutely.”

“Alright, well, I should go and sort it out. Stay in touch, alright?”

“Yes,” Jaime said. “You too.”

He ended the call, launched himself off the couch and went to investigate the state of his spare room. 

Peck, or his cleaning service, had made sure that Jaime’s own bed had fresh, clean sheets, but they hadn’t bothered with the spare rooms, likely because Jaime hadn’t had a guest to stay once over the entire six years he’d owned the flat. It didn’t take Jaime long to find the linen closet, but it took over an hour for him to make up one of the spare beds one-handed until it didn’t look like a drunken spider had been at it.

Brienne wouldn’t expect him to cook, so lunch and dinner could be takeout, but breakfast … Jaime managed to change out of the tracksuit pants and T-shirt he’d been living in, in the North, into something that was less likely to draw pitying looks. That, too, took a ridiculous amount of time – how could buttons be so easy to do up with his right hand and so difficult with his left? – but eventually he was more-or-less appropriately attired, if he didn’t count the fact that he’d had to hack open the right sleeve of a designer shirt with kitchen scissors to fit it over his cast.

By that time, Jaime was almost certain that the sensible choice would have been to call Peck, give him instructions, and go to bed, but he was dressed now and it would probably take him another forty minutes to get undressed for bed, so he shoved his wallet into his back pocket and went looking for a supermarket that was still open.

It was King’s Landing, so he didn’t have to look for long to find an Expressmart with _24/7 _flashing outside. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy: Jaime quickly discovered that he had no ability to steer a shopping trolley one-handed and he couldn’t both hold a basket and take items from the shelves at the same time. It took an absurd amount of time for him to collect cereal, milk, bread, an assortment of spreads – he considered eggs and bacon but there was no way he’d be able to cook it for Brienne – oatmeal – on second consideration, he went back for eggs because he could probably boil them –

By the time he got home and put his shopping away, Jaime was so exhausted he fell face-down on the bed, fully clothed, and passed out before he even had time to think about taking his shoes off.

He even slept through Brienne’s message the next morning letting him know when her seaplane would land in Blackwater Bay. Fortunately it was not until mid-afternoon, so Jaime sent a message to Peck telling him to meet her and went through the slow and irritating process of taping up his cast so he could have a shower. He still hadn’t mastered either shaving or washing his hair properly with just one hand, but at least when he was done he looked more like someone who’d spent several weeks camping in the Kingswood and less like a homeless bum panhandling for change on Visenya’s Hill.

With grim determination, he managed to make a cup of coffee in slightly less than the time it would have taken for him to walk to one of the cafes ringing the Dragonpit and buy one. He killed another few hours watching the most recent episodes of _Sunspear Vice_, despite how irritating Arys Oakhurst was, and how comprehensively annoying he found the show’s attempt to cash in on enthusiasm for historical dramas by equipping a modern-day undercover cop with a sword. Arys wasn’t even very good with it.

_Better than me, now, though_.

Jaime turned the television off, checked his phone for the third time in an hour, texted Peck to make sure he was at the seaplane dock at Blackwater Bay –

His phone squawked. _I don’t know your address, _from Blue Brienne.

_Peck will bring u._

A long pause. _I don’t see him_.

_Hold on._

Peck picked up on the first ring. “Plane was delayed, Mr Jaime. It’ll be –”

“She said she was there,” Jaime said.

“No, sir, the plane was delayed –”

Jaime hung up. _Wnch where ru? _

_Bus station. What’s your address?_

Oh, for the Stranger’s sake … the bus station was in Flea Bottom, and while the neighbourhood might not be as seedy these days as it had been in times past, it was no place for a stranger to the city to be wandering around. _Wait. Pck will come. She’s at the bsu station._

_You sent both those to me, Jaime. _

_Jst wait. Sty ner pple. Pck wl cm._

_Jaime Lannister, I could pick Jos Peckledon up beneath one arm and I spent four years as a LEO, two of them in this very city. I am quite capable of finding my way to your apartment without being kidnapped by Yunkish slavers. _

_Do u at lset hv Othkeeper?_

His phone squawked and when he answered, Brienne said extremely calmly, “You are testing my patience.”

Meekly, Jaime gave her his address, and then texted Peck to let him know he could bring the car back home.

It was just over half-an-hour when his intercom buzzed. Jaime scrambled to his feet, fumbled the handset off the wall with his left hand and dropped it. “Shit. Fuck.” He grabbed it up. “Hello?”

“Special delivery from the Yunkish slave market,” Brienne’s familiar voice said.

Jaime laughed, managing to press the _open_ button with his cast. “If you’re a tall wench with blue eyes, come on up.”

He opened the door and waited for the elevator. It was an unreasonably long time before the bell dinged and the doors opened. Brienne stepped out, for the first time since Jaime had met her wearing a normal, southron winter coat, carrying a small bag. Her cheeks were pink with cold and her eyes a brighter blue than usual in contrast. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” Jaime said, grinning like an idiot, before he managed to recover his manners and stepped back. “Come in.”

Brienne followed him inside, and glanced around. “This is nice.” It was a nice apartment, in fact it was a very nice apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the city towards Blackwater Rush and interior décor from the most expensive consultant in King’s Landing, but after that one cursory glance Brienne ignored it. “You look well.”

Jaime rubbed his good hand over his beard. “Still haven’t masted the left-handed razor.”

“It suits you, the beard,” Brienne said, and then looked down, cheeks flushing even pinker. “I mean, I’m not a stylist or anything, so I don’t really know.”

“I’m not a stylist either, which I why I employ one, but I’m glad to know I don’t look like I’m getting in character to play a member of the Brotherhood without Banners. Here, let me show you your room.” He led the way to the guest room. “Do you want to freshen up? Are you hungry? I can order –” Suddenly, the guest room seemed remarkably inadequate. Yes, the bed was made, but why hadn’t he thought of flowers in a vase, a jug of water and a glass, some sort of snack in case Brienne was hungry in the night? “I’m sorry, I only just got back, I –”

Brienne put her bag down beside the bed. “This is lovely. It’s much nicer than a hotel. I had lunch on the bus, so I’m not hungry. I would like to wash my face and hands, though.”

“The bathroom’s through there. It’s shared with the other guest bedroom – there’s no other guest though, so it’s yours –”

“Thanks,” Brienne said. She put her hand on his arm. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind a coffee? If you have any, or a tea?”

“Coffee, yes, I can make coffee.”

That was a remarkably ambitious commitment, Jaime realised as he struggled with the coffee maker. Without a hand to brace the machine, he had to work the lever loose fraction at a of an inch at a time, using the weight of the coffeemaker to gradually ease it up –

Brienne’s hand reached past his shoulder and clamped down on the top of the coffee maker, and the lever came abruptly free. “You need a different coffeemaker.”

“This is the best –” He managed to scoop beans left-handed into the grinder, spilling some across the counter. _Now, just to get the handle down again –_ his left hand didn’t have quite the strength to do it, but if he leaned –

Brienne covered his hand with hers, and forced the handle closed. “Jaime. Where do you get your fish?”

He turned to stare at her. “What?”

“Where do you get your fish?”

“The fish-market, of course.”

“Me too. Dad catches his own dinner, though. I’m terrible at fishing. Should I not eat fish because I can’t catch it myself? Or should I not go fishing in the Trident because I’m not good at fishing at sea?”

“I _can_ use this coffeemaker,” Jaime snapped. He grabbed a cup from the shelf, missed his hold and saw it shatter on the floor. “Stranger fuck me frozen!”

“Alright.” Brienne gripped his shoulders when he started to bend and gather up the shattered porcelain. “Jaime. There are a hundred things you can do that I can’t. There are a hundred things my father can do that neither of us can do. And there are things you used to be able to do that you can’t do any more.”

“You can do fucking anything,” Jaime snarled, jerking away. “Don’t tell me about the things you can’t do, wench. You have two good hands –”

“And you have the prettiest face in the Seven Kingdoms, and you’re an actor, and if you tell me again that it’s all due to your stunt-work I’ll slap you, because we _both_ know Sandor Clegane could beat both of us hollow on his worst day and he’s not exactly beating off job-offers with a stick.” Brienne’s blue eyes were blazing. “There are things you can’t do anymore, and there are things you _can_ do that other people can’t, and using this stupid over-engineered coffeemaker belongs in the first category, so buy a new one!”

Jaime blinked at her, his mouth dry in the face of her righteous fury. “You think I’m pretty?” he managed after a moment.

“Handsome, is that better?” Brienne snapped.

“Really doesn’t matter. A new coffeemaker?”

“Coffee’s coffee.”

Jaime took a breath, and managed to steady his hand. “It really isn’t, wench, and I’m appalled you think so. Do they not have decent coffee on Tarth?”

Brienne sighed. “Look, let me clean up this mess and we can go out for coffee, alright? Where’s your dustpan?”

“Um … I’ll text my cleaner and ask.” The look Brienne gave him made Jaime feel about as tall as Tyrion. “Or I could find it?”

Brienne knelt down and started picking up the larger pieces of crockery. “Try under the sink.”

He found the dustpan and brush. He managed to get them out without dropping them. He held the kitchen rubbish bin for Brienne to tip the shards of crockery into it. He put the dustpan and brush away again.

“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” Brienne said quietly.

“I shouted first, wench,” Jaime reminded her. He gave her his best charming grin. “Although if you ever find yourself in Moat Cailin again, you _really_ should look up Maege Mormont. I have the feeling the two of you would get along like a house on fire. What are the Tarth house words, anyway? Pull Yourself Together, Man? Slapping Sense Into Lannisters A Specialty?”

He won a small smile from her. “We Shine.”

_Yes, you do. _“Come on, then,” he said. “I promised you a coffee. And then you can help me buy a new coffeemaker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There aren’t any canon Tarth words.


	31. Brienne XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne in King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit shorter, so I hope the speed of posting makes up for it.

Brienne ended up staying three days in King’s Landing. She helped Jaime pick out a coffee-maker he could operate with just one hand and then, with a cheerful matter-of-factness she did not at all feel, a number of other useful gadgets for his kitchen: braces that fastened onto the counter and underneath the cupboards so he could open jars and ring-pull cans without a second hand to hold them, a corkscrew he could use one-handed and a can-opener likewise. It was awful, and made her want to cry, the continual reminder of his monstrously cruel maiming, but it was worse for Jaime and so Brienne was bright and positive and waited to shed her tears silently into her pillow that night. He had been so good, not just in the rehearsals but when they had fought by Castle Cerwyn, fast and strong and as if the sword were alive in his hand. If they had met on the field in a tourney, Brienne doubted she could have beaten him: only the fact that he had been cautious of hurting her had allowed her to last long enough to wear him down.

And now all that was gone, stolen from him in one vicious moment of malice. If it had been her, Brienne knew she would not have taken it half so well as Jaime had. His mouth had been tight as he’d watched her install everything in his kitchen, but he’d gone about learning how to use what the salesperson had termed _assistive technology_ with a reasonably-well-feigned good humour. Brienne herself had wanted to take it all out onto his eleventh-floor-balcony and hurl it into the street, watching him, but that wouldn’t help him, what would help him would her being calm and practical and making sure he could take care of himself, so that was what she did.

The second day, she went to spend her insurance money on a new car, well, a new second-hand car. Jaime insisted on coming with her, and before they’d even finished at the first dealership Brienne had stopped feeling terrible for him and started wanting to run him over with one of the over-priced, over-driven, under-cared-for vehicles the chinless salesman was trying to palm off on her. _This one has _five_ cupholders, wench! How can you resist a car with _five_ cupholders? Does it come in red? Or blue? You should definitely get a blue car, now I think about it. Look, a sunroof! _Her undisguised irritation had only produced a sunny smile, and more irrelevant rhapsodising about the luxury features of cars she did not want and couldn’t afford. She’d almost wished for a return to his sullen silence, and then hated herself for the thought, which had done absolutely nothing to improve her mood.

By the end of the morning Brienne’d had a splitting headache and was finding it impossible to concentrate on what she _actually_ wanted, which was a reliable low-cost SVU with enough leg-room to accommodate her absurd size. It was a miracle of the Mother’s mercy – or perhaps the Smith’s labour, he being a more appropriate deity for vehicles – that she finally found not just a suitable car, but an excellent deal, no more than a year old and barely driven, an excellent safety and fuel efficiency rating, and still within her price range.

And it was blue, and had a profusion of cupholders, which made Jaime ridiculously happy.

What made Brienne happy was that Jaime had both arranged for Sandor to come to King’s Landing to help him train, and had found himself a new physiotherapist, Gilly Craster, without Brienne needing to drop any gentle hints. She thought perhaps he should also find a counsellor of some sort, but a small, selfish part of her, knowing his current eager affection was just a by-product of their shared ordeal, kept her from speaking the thought aloud. It was an awful thing to know about herself, that she was so pathetic that she couldn’t bring herself to let go of even a counterfeit, situational friendship, but there it was.

The miserable thing was, if he hadn’t been beautiful and famous, if he hadn’t been absurdly rich and ridiculously charming, if he hadn’t been Jaime fucking Lannister, they might actually have _been_ friends. Jaime might have a ludicrous fondness for the most lurid and extravagant versions of every historical tale and ancient legend, but he had the same passion for the past that Brienne did, and he was extraordinarily well-read. He could be exasperatingly silly, but Brienne found herself laughing more with Jaime than she had in … well, ever, really. When she’d – mortifyingly, for a grown woman – teared up at the end of _Dances With Direwolves_, he hadn’t made fun of her. During _The Crackclaw Point Project_ he’d made her laugh so much by pretending to hide behind her during all the scary bits that she’d missed most of the dialogue – although given it was mostly _Arghh! _and _Behind you! _she still managed to mostly follow the plot.

But men like Jaime Lannister didn’t, in the normal course of events, spend their evenings watching old movies with someone like Brienne Tarth, or their days shopping for second-hand cars with her. Men like Jaime Lannister spent their time with women as beautiful and charming as they were, not with hideous freaks with a tendency to stumble over their own tongues.

Right now, though, he wanted her around, and being around meant Brienne could make sure he was alright, so it wasn’t only selfishness that kept her from sitting Jaime down and giving him the same speech her father had given her.

Before she left for Tarth again, Brienne also met Tyrion for coffee and gave him a firm talk about taking care of his brother. She didn’t spare his feelings: when Jaime regained enough emotional equilibrium to set her at an appropriate distance again, he’d need more than Sandor Clegane and Gilly Craster to help him cope with a life-altering, and possibly career-ending, injury, and if Tyrion was what he had, Brienne was determined that Tyrion was going to step up to the plate.

Satisfied that Jaime was in good hands and in as good enough shape as could reasonably be expected, Brienne took herself back to her father’s house with a clear conscience. If there was a lump in her throat for most of the drive to Storm’s End, and if her heart gave a sweetly painful thump when she checked her phone on the ferry and saw that Jaime had texted her eighteen times since she’d left his apartment, well, Jaime was charming and he was beautiful and he was excellent company, and Brienne was surely not the first woman to have a small crush on an unobtainable man, and she would surely not be the last.

_I’m on the ferry,_ she sent back. _Don’t forget,_ _reception drops out in the middle of the bay, so don’t assume merfolk pirates if I don’t answer right away._

_How long shd I wait b4 I blame merfolk? _he answered promptly.

_At least forty-eight hours._

_Is tht an actual procotol? _

Brienne couldn’t repress a smile. _Which is more likely, that Tarth has merfolk abduction protocols, or that I’m japing?_

_Knowing u wench the former. Also tarth seems like the place 2 have thme. _

_No. Just for selkies. _

_Still cant tell if ur japing._

_There’s one on the ferry with me. _

_How can u tell?_

_She has her seal-skin rolled up under her arm._

_Pics or it didn’t happen. _

_I can’t, she’ll know I’m on to her,_ Brienne replied swiftly. _Your typing is getting better._

_I gto Peck to fix my autocorrect._

_My sanity thanks him. _

_Brienne?_ Jaime sent after another few moments._ Is there relly a selkie on the ferry with u?_

_Are you accusing me of lying?_

_This seems like a tarp. _

_It’s definitely not a tarp._

_Wnch. U knoe wat I mean. _

_Peck clearly has further work to do. _

_Citidelpedia says that selkies r from the Iorn Islands, not the stormlands_

_Maybe she’s a tourist. _

_Wench I think im corrupting u. _

Without thinking, Brienne typed _would that be bad?_ and pressed _send_. The next second her stomach turned over. _Oh shit, oh shit, can you get a text back, why isn’t there an unsend button, shit – _

The flapping raven that meant someone was composing a message hung on her screen for an age before it finally disappeared and Jaime’s message came through.

He’d taken an extraordinary amount of time to type _No._


	32. Jaime XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime tries to get his life together.

Sandor Clegane arrived in King’s Landing, negotiated training space at one of Arthur Dayne’s chain of _Dawnstar _gyms, and commenced thrashing Jaime with padded practice swords three mornings a week and running him to exhaustion up and down Visenya's Hill on the other four. Jaime’s afternoons were spent with Gilly Craster, who was the exact opposite of Maege Mormont in every way. Where Maege was solid muscle, Gilly was large and soft. Where Maege chivvied and bullied, Gilly was all kindness and sympathy. Where Maege shouted, Gilly was quiet and sweet. Maege had been full of scorn when she thought Jaime was slacking off – Gilly looked at him with huge, wounded eyes, as if he’d run over her dog instead of merely falling short of her expectations.

When he wobbled out the door of her practice each day, Jaime wasn’t entirely sure which was worse.

At least the exercise meant he was able to eat more like a human again. It was just as well, given Tyrion had conceived a hitherto-unprecedented requirement for his brother’s daily company – at least unprecedented since Tyrion had left home and discovered that wealth and charm went a long way towards securing female attention – so coffee, or lunch, or dinner with his little brother took up more of Jaime’s otherwise empty hours. He preferred coffee or lunch, since Brienne went to bed early and dinner with Tyrion usually stretched until he barely had time to say _Evening, wench_ before he could hear her yawning at the other end of the line.

Sometimes Tyrion came complete with Bronn, sometimes with Shae, neither of which Jaime particularly minded, although he put his foot down when Shae brought her friend Ros and Jaime had to forcibly remove the redhead from his lap before her calculated wriggling caused him more embarrassment than just an unwanted erection. _If I want an escort I can hire my own_, he told Tyrion, and Tyrion – for once – listened. 

Tyrion also asked about Brienne, unfailingly, and if there was something of an air of a parent delighted their introverted child had finally been invited to a birthday party about it, well, Jaime couldn’t blame him. He’d spent a long evening lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling, cataloguing all the almost-friends he’d had over the years and the ways Cersei had found to come between them before finally admitting to himself that Tyrion had been completely right about their cousin. _She thinks you’re going to get back to normal and forget about her_, Tyrion said one night when they were both more than a little tipsy. _If you do, I’ll have to climb on a chair and punch you. Not very hard, because you are my brother, but possibly more than once. She’s very nice. _

Jaime wasn’t sure how you went about making sure someone knew you weren’t about to forget about them, except by _not_, so he just kept calling and texting and sending her links to something he’d found interesting on the weirnet and photos of the meals he was managing to occasionally cook for himself and pictures of the bruises Sandor gave him on a daily basis. Typing _how to be a good friend_ in the 3ER search engine produced a bewildering list of options, most of them impractical due to sheer distance, but he could certainly manage _be reliable_ and _be a good listener_ and _make time_ and _take an interest _over the phone. He made sure to call Brienne exactly when he said he would, he asked every question about Tarth and her home and her father and her time in law enforcement he could think of, and he memorised every detail he could manage so he could prove to her later what a good listener he was. And it seemed to work, because it took Jaime less and less time to get her to relax and laugh each time he called, so chalk one up to 3ER.

He also called Beth Cassell and asked her if she’d consider letting him give out the story that they’d amicably and mutually agreed to end things, and was taken aback by how readily she agreed, even when he pointed out that she’d make less money selling her story that way. She hadn’t even gotten angry when Jaime confessed that he’d used her to distract the media from Brienne.

Tyrion had found it remarkably easy to extricate Jaime from his contract with Walder Frey, which Jaime knew was due to his sudden plummeting marketability. Tyrion set up a dozen meetings with other agents, which Jaime sat through, nodding at the right moments, until a skinny little girl who could be no more than nineteen introduced herself as Joy Hill and asked him if he’d considered making a documentary about his rehabilitation.

“Why?” Jaime asked.

“People might feel inspired.”

“I don’t feel very _inspiring_,” Jaime snapped, holding up his cast.

“That’s why you’re an actor,” Joy replied without blinking.

“Are you sure?” Tyrion asked him over dinner. “She’s very inexperienced … you might even be her first client.”

“I like her,” Jaime said stubbornly. “She’s the agent I want.”

Joy set up an interview with a journalist Jaime had never met or even heard of while she hunted for a director and a producer who might be interested in the project. Ulwyck Uller was a grizzled Dornishman with a decided limp who spent an absurd amount of time filming Jaime sparring with Sandor, running up and down Visenya's Hill, and following Gilly Craster’s gentle instructions. He spent longer sitting on Jaime’s couch and asking questions that Jaime hadn’t even thought to ask _himself_.

“Brienne –” Jaime found himself saying, and stopped. “Sorry. I – look, can we go off the record for a minute?”

“Sure,” Ulwyck said. He tapped his phone, held it up to show Jaime the recording was paused, and shoved it across the coffee table, out of his reach.

“It’s just that she’s a normal person. Not like me. A private citizen.”

“Brienne.”

“Yes, Brienne. And she can’t cope with the whole media circus. So I don’t want to bring her into it. Can I ask you – I know it’s not how it works, but if I slip up – can you still leave her out of it?”

“I can,” Ulwyck said, surprising Jaime. He reached for his phone, turned recording back on. “This is Ulwyck Uller giving a commitment to Jaime Lannister that _Brienne _won’t be mentioned in any story I write or any story based on my research.” He turned the recording off and pushed the phone away. “So who is she?”

“She was with me, when I was taken,” Jaime said. “She’s the reason I’m still alive.” 

And once he’d begun to talk about her, he couldn’t stop, like the Trident breaching a dam at spring flood. Brienne, fighting him to a standstill, Brienne correctly judging the Brave Companions were going to kill her as an excess witness and still focusing absolutely on keeping Jaime alive, Brienne nursing him through pain and fever, Brienne taking beatings to try and get him medical care, Brienne putting her body between him and any stray bullets, Brienne covering him with her body when she thought a paparazzi flash was a gun, Brienne walking him through the details of how to make his apartment work for a man with only one hand, Brienne at the other end of the phone when he started to sink into the swamp of knowing just what he’d lost and would never get back, Brienne whose sense of humour was so subtle most people missed it completely …

When Jaime finished, his throat was dry and his hand was shaking. “She’s …” There really wasn’t anything he could think to say. “She’s Brienne,” he finished, lamely.

“She sounds like quite the woman,” Ulwyck said.

“Person,” Jaime corrected. “She’s quite the person. Being a woman has nothing to do with it. But you have to leave her alone. You said you would.”

“And I will.”

Most of the rest of Ulwyck’s questions were anodyne and routine. Jaime answered them easily, remembered to mention the amicable pretend-breakup with Beth Cassell, and forgot about the interview for the next few weeks until his media alert reminded him it would be on _One Thousand Eyes And One_ that evening. That was a mild surprise – he hadn’t expected Joy to be able to place a story with the Seven Kingdom’s most respected current affairs program – but the story itself was a disaster. Jaime had spent his entire career making everything he did look effortless, but Ulwyck’s camera had captured him breathless and sweating, straining for one more rep – having his practice sword knocked easily aside by Sandor and having to retrieve it time and time again – running Visenya’s Hill until he doubled over retching. The story had obviously been legalled to within an inch of its life, and Ulwyck kept the details of what had happened with the Brave Companions vague, but Jaime was surprised to realise he’d said more about his hand, his prognosis, his struggle to adapt, than he’d remembered. _Of course I have bad days_, televised Jaime said, unbearably earnest. _The thing is to – _

He switched it off and let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling. _Well. So much for Joy Hill’s good advice. _His phone squawked and the only reason Jaime checked it was in case it was Brienne – which it was.

“It was a good story,” she said when he answered.

He snorted. “It was shit. It made me look like a –”

“Man who is determined not to be defined by what happened to him, that’s what it made you look like.” 

“Self-pitying idiot.”

“Honest about what you’re going through,” Brienne countered. “How much longer do you have to wear the cast?”

“Until next week.” Part of him couldn’t wait to be rid of it; part of him dreaded the day he’d have undeniable confirmation that the maesters were right. “At least, that’s what they say at the moment.”

“Mmm. On the TV, you looked …”

“Like a sweaty mess?”

“I was going to say that you looked like you were getting back into shape. You decided to keep the beard?”

“I loathe electric razors and going anywhere near my neck with a blade in my left hand, even a safety, is an invitation to exsanguination. Besides, it cuts down on people realising precisely which cripple I am.” 

“Not any more. You do know how many people watch _One Thousand Eyes and One_, don’t you?”

Jaime groaned. “Don’t remind me, wench. All of them just saw me vomiting up my boots after a jog.”

“You retch very prettily.”

“Well that’s some comfort, although not a skill-set I ever thought I’d need. I made sure to keep you out of it, at least.”

“Yes,” Brienne said after a small pause. “Of course.”

“Are you going to make good on your promise to come train with me, or has the sight of me dropping my sword on my feet five times in a row put you off?”

“After First Dawn, I thought,” Brienne said.

“That’s _weeks_,” Jaime pointed out, aware he sounded like a sulky child and utterly unable to do anything about it.

“A week and a half, and if they cancel the ferries I’d have no way to get home for it if I come before.”

“Cancel the ferries?”

“Tarth is in the Stormlands, Jaime. As in, land of storms. We get a few each winter that make Shipbreaker Bay too rough.”

“Wench, Tarth sounds less and less attractive as a holiday destination.”

Brienne laughed softly. “Probably why we don’t get many tourists.”

“Apart from the occasional selkie.”

“Apart from them,” Brienne agreed. “What are you doing for Last Dark, this year? One of the big parties?”

“Seven Hells, no. Tyrion will doubtless be at one, but I’m planning a marathon viewing of all six remakes of _The Thing That Came In The Night_.”

“By yourself? Who will you hide behind when it gets scary?”

“The couch,” Jaime said promptly, and smiled when she laughed. “What about you? Do they still stay up to see First Dawn, on Tarth?”

“We try,” Brienne said. “Mostly people make it to the hour of the wolf and not much further. Too many fisherfolk on Tarth for us to be good at late nights. Everyone’s usually up for the dawn, though.” She paused. “You should go to one of the parties, you know. See your friends.”

“_You’re_ my friends,” Jaime said. “Pretty much all of them.”

“There’s Sandor.”

“Sandor Clegane is my torturer, wench, not my friend.”

“Jaime, don’t try to tell me you don’t know anybody in King’s Landing.” Brienne sounded faintly exasperated. “What about all the other movie people? I’m sure some of them are nice. And you must know people from the Ice and Fire Faires. Even _I_ know people from the Faires.”

“I know people, yes. They’re not friends. You keep forgetting who I am, wench. Kingslayer, remember?”

“Well,” Brienne said, “maybe you should come to Tarth, then. We’re not very interesting, but I doubt half the island would even know who you are, let along recognise you.”

“Are you inviting me to a Last Dark party, Brienne Tarth?” Jaime asked, his mouth unaccountably dry.

“I’m sorry, it’s a silly idea,” Brienne said quickly. “It’s a long way to come and you wouldn’t be interested –”

“Because if you are, I’d like to come.”

“Oh. Really?”

“No, wench, I’m just saying it in order to have an excuse to spend an uncomfortable hour in a seaplane.”

“Well. You’d be very welcome. You’ll probably be bored, though.”

“With you to entertain me?” Jaime grinned. “Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Dark and First Dawn are a modern Westerosi New Year’s Eve and Christmas combined equivalent, although at the midwinter solstice. I kind of imagine it’s a distorted folk tradition of celebrating the end of the Long Night, on the longest night of the year, but not actually called the Long Night because there are sufficient stories about it to make it not the sort of thing you all get together and cheerfully toast.


	33. Brienne XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime arrives on Tarth.

Brienne ran her hands over her hair, trying to smooth it into some semblance of order – a lost cause, with the breeze whipping off the bay – and thought, as she had at least once a day for the past week, _This was a terrible idea._

She hadn’t really been thinking when she’d extended the invitation to Jaime, and then he’d actually sounded pleased, and that was it, she couldn’t disinvite him then. Not knowing that his own plans were to spend the most important family night of the year alone on his couch watching horror movies.

But she’d seen his apartment, all sleek designer furniture and chrome and appliances that cost more than her car, and she’d seen the kind of hotel room he considered normal, and there was nothing on Tarth that could possibly meet Jaime Lannister’s standards. Certainly not her father’s dilapidated house.

She’d tried to put Jaime off the whole idea each time they’d talked since then, mentioning that the guest room certainly didn’t have an en suite, that her father preferred to drink Qohor Roast even though she’d offered to buy him a coffee machine, that he should be sure and pack something warm to sleep in because the house’s heating wasn’t really efficient upstairs … Each evening Brienne had hoped that Jaime would discover some King’s Landing invitation he really couldn’t turn down at her latest item on the list of _why you don’t really want to visit Brienne and Selwyn Tarth_.

Each evening he’d only seemed to grow more enthusiastic about his visit.

Until the last few days, until the maesters had taken his cast off. Since then, he’d been enthusiastic about nothing at all. At times it was almost as if he wasn’t even there at the other end of the phone, and Brienne had realised she either had to make sure he _did_ visit or else give up the idea of finally spending a Last Dark with her father after all these years and go to King’s Landing.

So now she was standing beside her car at the end of the seaplane dock, trying to make herself slightly more presentable and waiting for Jaime to disembark. At least the weather was co-operating: it might be cold, but it was one of Tarth’s best winter days, the sky clear of all but a few white, fluffy clouds, the sun sparkling on the brilliant blue waters and lighting the deep green firs on Tarth’s hills to their best advantage.

The first thing she noticed when he unfolded his long legs from the plane and stepped onto the dock was that he still held his right arm bent, hand protectively close to his body, as if he were still wearing his cast. Then he got closer, and Brienne could see the shadows beneath his eyes.

His smile when he saw her was close to her Jaime, though. “Wench!” he said cheerfully. “Why didn’t you tell me your island is so beautiful? How is this not a tourism hotspot?”

Brienne couldn’t help returning his smile. “There’s only one motel, and two B&Bs. If we become a tourism hotspot, the tourists will have to sleep in their cars.”

“So market it to the camping crowd,” Jaime said, unphased. He dropped his bag at her feet and turned to point up at the headland with his left hand. “Can we go up there? The view must be amazing.”

“Edwyn’s Point? Yes, there’s a road.” Brienne put his bag in the boot, surprised at its weight. _He’s packed as if he’s staying a month._

“Who was Edwyn?” Jaime asked immediately and predictably as he got in the passenger seat.

“Durran the Fair’s goodfather.” Brienne waited for him to buckle his seatbelt, noticing that he didn’t use his right hand at all but still kept it curled to his chest. “So Erich the Sailmaker’s great-grandfather. I mean, so the stories say.”

“And why does he have a point?”

Brienne started the car and drove with her usual caution out of the parking lot, turning left instead of heading right, to home. “It looks towards Storm’s End. He used to – I mean, it’s said that he used to walk up there, after his daughter married Durran, looking over Shipbreaker Bay to catch a glimpse of her.”

“He must have had eyes like a hawk. A very long-sighted hawk.”

Brienne sighed. “He probably wasn’t real, Jaime. Any more than Durran Godsgrief was.”

He turned in his seat to look at her. “_Someone_ built Storm’s End.”

“Probably not the goodson of the god of the sea, though.”

“It would make a good movie,” Jaime said. “If Renly Baratheon could be talked out of self-imposed retirement, he could play Durran Godsgrief. He’s got the build and the looks for it. Barristan Selmy for the god of the sea, Ashara Dayne for the wind goddess.”

Brienne was intrigued despite herself. “And Elenei? Who would you cast for her? Margaery Tyrell?”

Jaime snorted. “Hardly. Marg’s pretty and hardworking, but no-one would believe her as a woman prepared to give up immortality for life-long love.”

“You shouldn’t spread gossip,” Brienne said reprovingly. “You, of all people –”

Jaime laughed. “Relax, wench. I’ve fought her off a time or two myself, and she leaks her own sex tapes to the weirnet. It’s not gossip if someone’s proud of it.” He stared out the window for a moment. “Asha Greyjoy,” he said suddenly. “I mean, I’d have to screentest her – she’s only done stage work – but her _Leopard Queen_ was fairly extraordinary and she’d certainly be convincing as a woman prepared to burn the world down to get what she wants.”

“Well, you should make it,” Brienne said, stopping the car at the lookout. 

“I don’t know anything about being _behind_ the camera.” Jaime fumbled with his seatbelt and got it undone. “Or the business end of it at all.”

“Hire people,” Brienne said. “Isn’t there a name for that? Producer or something? The person who has the idea and puts all the people together to make it happen? I’m sure there’s a book you can read to learn how to do it. People you can ask for advice.”

Jaime stared at her for a moment. “You’re serious.”

Brienne shrugged. “People make films all the time. Everyone starts somewhere. I mean, I don’t think Renly is going to give up his political ambitions to go back to acting, even for a little while, but there has to be someone else.”

“No-one is going to give me a sack full of dragons to make an epic historical fantasy about Durran Godsgrief on my first start out of the gate.”

“Then don’t be epic. I mean, what’s the story really about?” Brienne waited a moment. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Jaime. What’s the story really about?”

She got out of the car and braced herself against the gusts. Jaime got out as well, and staggered slightly before he adjusted to the gale. He shouted something that was whipped away by the wind. Brienne shrugged and gestured to her ear. There were whitecaps out beyond the breakers, always a sign of a coming storm, although not enough to worry about getting Jaime back to her father’s house safely. If they were lucky, there’d be dolphins or even a whale for Jaime to see. _I can tell him they’re merfolk pirates._

“I said,” Jaime said directly into her ear, suddenly very close behind her, “it’s a love story.” Brienne started to turn around and Jaime put his left arm around her waist. “Don’t move, you’re a lovely windbreak.”

_Big Brienne, the windbreak._ “So it’s a love story,” she said after a moment. “Durran and Elenei are in love, despite her parents trying to split them up.”

“No.” Jaime had apparently decided she made an excellent leaning post as well as a windbreak, his chin on her shoulder. “It’s her parents. The Sea God and the Wind Goddess. Because the story goes that by marrying Durran, Elenei gives up her immortality. That’s why her parents were so angry, because she was going to die. I mean, imagine what your father would do if you … gave me both your kidneys or something. He’d rip me limb from limb.”

“I don’t know where you get this idea that Dad is such a violent man.”

“He would though. I mean, my father, he’d raise an eyebrow and shake his head and then go back to his newspaper, but I’m given to understand that most parents actually care a great deal about their children.”

_Oh, Jaime. _Brienne put her hand over his where it lay flat on her stomach, for whatever poor comfort she could provide. “So your story is about Elenei and her parents.”

“Maybe.” His breath was warm on her neck. “I’ll have to think about it. Do you think I could really make a film?”

“I don’t see why not,” Brienne said robustly. “I mean, as far as I could tell it mostly involves shouting at people who already know how to do their jobs. You’d take to it like a gull to water.”

Jaime chuckled. “Cruel wench.”

They were silent for a moment. “Are you going to tell me about your hand?” Brienne asked quietly.

“I’d rather not,” Jaime said, but he shifted a little and put his other arm around her, holding his right hand out for her to see. It was a mess of scars, both surgical and not. His last three fingers were slightly curled, and when he stretched out his hand and then tried to make a fist, only his thumb and forefinger responded fully, the others only twitching slightly. “So you see.” His voice shook slightly.

Brienne took his poor maimed hand and folded it with his other, her own hands over both. “How are you?”

“Much better now I’m here with you, wench.” He leaned a little more heavily on her. “But fairly shit, to be honest.”

“What would make you feel better?”

He chuckled. “What’s on offer on the fine and beautiful Sapphire Isle?”

“Evenfall Hall is quite near my father’s house. I could give you a tour.”

“Are there ghosts?” Jaime asked hopefully.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“Not even the ghost of the Blue Knight, the most famous Evenstar of them all?”

“Nobody even knows if she really was from Tarth, let alone the Evenstar, and there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“Will you pretend to see a ghost to cheer me up?”

Brienne couldn’t keep from smiling. “Jaime …”

“Please?” he wheedled.

“No, but I will tell you the stories, how about that?”

“Ghost stories?”

Brienne began to laugh. “Jaime, you are incorrigible.” 

“It’s part of my charm.”

“It’s not remotely charming.”

“Mean wench,” Jaime said cheerfully. He freed a hand to point out to sea. “What’s that?” 

“That,” Brienne said calmly, “is a merman.”

It took Jaime most of the drive back to Evenfall to stop laughing.


	34. Jaime XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a nice long chapter for you to make up for the shortness of the recent ones.

Jaime tried not to be disappointed that there wasn’t time to visit Evenfall Hall after all, although he’d been looking forward to spending the afternoon poking around old ruins with his wench and pestering her until she gave in and stopped pretending not to find him funny. Given that Selwyn Tarth was apparently in the final throes of preparing for a Last Dark party of epic proportions, though, Jaime could hardly stamp his feet and insist on depriving him of his daughter’s assistance.

Besides, watching the party preparations was almost as fascinating as searching for the ghost of the Blue Knight.

Selwyn, who was even huger in real life than he’d seemed in Brienne’s photos, had greeted Jaime with a bone-crushing left-handed handshake, and if Jaime didn’t have much personal experience with normal family life, he’d seen enough movies to know the old man was making sure that Jaime knew he’d find himself with broken limbs if he caused Selwyn’s precious daughter one instant of unhappiness. After offering him coffee – which Jaime knew to politely decline, thanks to Brienne’s warning about Qohor Roast – Selwyn had hurried off to supervise the van unloading what appeared to be an entire ocean’s worth of seafood.

“Sorry,” Brienne said. “It’s just – Dad got a bit enthusiastic about me being back, and …”

“It’s fine, wench,” Jaime said, brushing the back of her hand with his fingers. “I can see Evenfall Hall some other time. It’s been there for thousands of years, after all, I’m sure it’ll last a little longer.” 

He found a perch out of the way in the corner of the kitchen, and quickly discovered that Brienne had been right when she’d assured him that no-one on Tarth would know or care who he was. Men and women, all various degrees of ridiculously tall, hurried in and out with plates and platters of food, directed by Selwyn or Brienne, putting things in the crammed refrigerator or in the oven or under the grill. Brienne introduced him simply as _Jaime_ to anyone who paused long enough for introductions, and Jaime put his trained memory to work learning who was Wendel and who was Abelar, who was Colin and who was Galon. Florys – one of the shorter denizens of Tarth at two inches short of Jaime’s own height – hauled in a cooler filled with ice and bottles of beer and put on in Jaime’s hand without asking. It was a little early in the day, in Jaime’s opinion, but he thanked her and sat nursing it.

The house was old, not expensive-mansion-on-the-Hill-of-Rhaenys old, but well-worn and comfortable old, generations of children old, repeatedly repaired and patched up by people used to working with their hands old. There were so many pencilled marks on the doorframe marking the height of children from knee-height to above Jaime’s head that he couldn’t read most of the names, there was the kind of misshapen jar that Tyrion had made for Jaime’s name day present when Tyrion had been nine on the top of the refrigerator holding an assortment of pens, there were faded patches on the paint where someone had done their level best to scrub away some child’s best efforts with permanent marker. It was a house – it was a _home_ – loved by its inhabitants, and Jaime had the odd feeling that the house loved them back. _Although Brienne would tell me that’s nonsense._

“Is everybody on Tarth this tall?” he asked Brienne the next time she whisked past him.

“No, only the Tarths.”

Jaime tried to count up the number of different blonde giants he’d seen so far and stopped at eleven. “These are all your family?”

“Ish,” Brienne said, and hurried off again.

He waited for her to come back. “Ish?”

“We’re all sort of related. Gregor’s probably the closest – he’s Dad’s cousin. And then Laena, she’s a second cousin once removed. And then it gets more distant.” She shrugged. “People used to have a lot of children, and apparently the Tarths were no exception.”

“Can I do something to help?” Jaime held up his useless hand. “I mean, something I won’t spoil or ruin?”

“If you could go and make sure the children aren’t using coals from the firepit to set anything inappropriate on fire, that would be an enormous help.”

Jaime blinked. “What would be _appropriate_ for them to be incinerating, just for the sake of information?”

But Brienne was gone again. Jaime abandoned his mostly-full beer and wandered outside to find the under-age arsonists.

Despite Brienne’s fears, the small horde of children racing about didn’t appear to be in immediate danger of burning things down, but they were clearly driving the adults working to get the food and decorations ready nearly insane. Jaime searched around under the nearest tree, found a few likely branches, and approached the nearest group of miniature hooligans.

“Who wants to learn sword-fighting?” he called cheerfully.

That kept them all nicely occupied until the light began to go, by which time the frantic activity had calmed down quite a lot and the food was beginning to be set out.

“You’re a life-saver,” one woman – a Maerie, Jaime thought – said to him as she sent what seemed to be her daughter off to the kitchen with a plate. “Are you a teacher?”

“No, but I’ve been considering a career change,” Jaime said lightly.

“You should, you were really good with them.”

“I have a younger brother,” Jaime explained, before excusing himself to find Brienne.

He checked the group around the firepit, and then the kitchen, and then the rest of the downstairs rooms, finally finding her sitting on the front porch, sprawled in a wicker chair with her long legs stretched to rest her feet on the railing. 

Jaime hesitated to disturb her, but Brienne turned her head and in the dim light, he thought she smiled. “I don’t know how you kept the children out from everybody’s feet, but it was like a miracle.”

“I taught them swordplay,” Jaime said, and Brienne laughed a little. “Can I get you some food? A drink?”

“No, I’ll go and be sociable in a minute. It’s just … a lot. A lot of people.” She paused. “It must be worse for you, at least I know them. I didn’t really think, what it would be like.”

He leaned against the wall. “It’s probably worse when you do know them, and they know you, and half of them can remember you when putting your toes in your mouth was your finest achievement. I know my Aunt Genna always reminds me that she can remember me dancing around her garden in the altogether when she wants to make me do something.”

“How old were you?” Brienne asked, quite seriously, as if he might be going to say _twenty-five. _

“Three or four, I think,” Jaime said. “Thankfully there’s no photographic evidence. Or Varys would have obtained it and Tyrion would be storing it to produce at the moment of maximum embarrassment.”

“I’m sorry you got thrown in the deep end with all of them, anyway.”

Jaime grinned at her. “I quite like your gang of giants, so stop apologising for them.”

“Mmm.” Brienne was silent a moment. “There is something I do need to tell you, though. And you’re going to tease me mercilessly, and I’m going to be more than usually cross when you do. Just so you know.”

“Noted.”

“You asked me if we were the Tarths of Tarth. And I lied and said I didn’t know. There _are_ a lot of Tarths, and a lot of us on Tarth, and I expect most of us are connected to the Tarth Tarths, one way or another. But …” She trailed off.

“Your dad’s the Evenstar, isn’t he?” Jaime said.

Brienne turned, startled. “How did you know?”

Jaime smiled. “He has a Ravengram account, wench. _At SelwynEvenstarTarth_.”

Brienne looked horrified. “Dad’s on Ravengram? Oh, mother’s mercy, what has he posted?”

“Pictures of fish, mostly,” Jaime reassured her. “Long and mostly correctly punctuated discourses on island infrastructure. He also has a weekly question and answer thread that seems to mostly focus on tips for the home handyman. Or handywench. So does that mean you’re the next Evenstar?”

She shook her head. “It’s been elected for centuries. I mean, the family picks, so sort of elected. It’ll be Merwyn next. It’s only ceremonial, anyway.”

“Shame,” Jaime said. “You could be the second Evenstar to wield a Valyrian steel sword. If we swapped, you could be the second Evenstar to wield Widow’s Wail.”

“You don’t even know if you’re not just making all that up,” Brienne protested.

“Maybe I should make a film about her, not Durran Godsgrief,” Jaime said. “About the Blue Knight. You’d have to play her, of course.”

Brienne snorted. “That’s not funny.”

“Good, because I’m not joking. All the stories say she was one of the finest knights of her time. Who would I cast, Arianne Martell?” He pitched his voice to a falsetto. “Prithee, good ser, canst thou tellst me where I may find a size six stiletto in Tully red? Or dost thou knoweth where dwelleth come-fuck-me pumps in Gardener green?”

“Jaime!” Brienne protested, but she was laughing.

“Would you, though? Think about it, at least?”

She sighed, and rose to her feet. “You don’t even have an idea for a film, let alone a script. Come on. Let’s get something to eat before all the best stuff is gone.”

Jaime let her tow him back to the party. As far as he could judge from the mountains of food, the _best stuff_ was more likely to go off before it ran out. Reluctantly, he had to decide against the shrimp and the crab as impossible to decant from their shells with one-and-one-third hands, but there was some sort of giant fish that had been roasted in the coals until the flesh was falling away from the bones at the touch of a fork, sardines floured and fried, oysters already opened on the half-shell … and so many kinds of salad that Jaime couldn’t even begin to decide, just picked the nearest three.

Knowing he couldn’t expect to monopolise Brienne at what was obviously a family reunion, he found an empty seat and sat down. He was absurdly pleased when she followed him and set down her own heaped plates across from him. “If you guard these from the merfolk pirates, I’ll get us some drinks,” she said. “Beer alright? I can’t vouch for the quality of the wine …”

“Beer’s fine,” Jaime said. The smoke from the firepit was making his eyes water and he wiped them quickly with a paper napkin from the stack on the table. Someone nearby was singing a sea shanty he didn’t know, something about _we rise and we fall, we sink and we swim_ but there were too many people talking too loudly for Jaime to catch all the words. The sun had completely gone down, and the firepit cast a reddish glow that competed with the multi-coloured hues of the hundreds of tiny lanterns strung among the bare branches of the trees. Selwyn’s booming voice echoed off to his left, and two children chased each other past the table, waving branches at each other. Everyone he could see knew each other, cared for each other, was a part of each other’s lives –

For a moment Jaime’s head spun, the lights dancing crazily overhead, and then Brienne’s hand was on his shoulder and the chair was solid beneath him again. She set an open bottle of beer in front of him, and took her own seat. “Alright?”

“Alright.” He sipped his beer. “I think I skipped lunch.”

Brienne frowned, strong fingers working quickly to strip the shells from the shrimp piled on her second plate. “You think?”

“I don’t really remember,” Jaime admitted, and then: “I might have missed breakfast as well. Possibly.”

“Do you actually remember the last time you ate?” Brienne swept the shells into a bowl already piled with them by other diners and started cracking open the crabs.

Jaime frowned, realising that he couldn’t. He’d begged off from Tyrion’s invitations since the maesters had cut off the cast and he’d tried to make a fist and realised … “Yesterday,” he lied confidently. “And probably breakfast. Do you remember every breakfast you eat?”

“Mmm.” Brienne pushed the plate of shrimp and crab meat towards him. “There. If you don’t mind my fingers – they’re quite clean …”

She’d seen him eyeing the shrimp and the crab, Jaime realised, and he suddenly wanted to weep, and not least because if he did Brienne would simply wrap her arms around him and hold him until he got himself together again. “Swap you oysters,” he said instead of crying, pushing his plate towards her.

Brienne grinned. “Only mainlanders think that oysters are a delicacy. For us, they’re what you eat when you can’t afford to shop and you have to scavenge on the shore.”

Jaime forked up a piece of crab, which was as delicious as he’d thought it would be. “So what’s luxury food on Tarth?”

“Beef,” Brienne said promptly. “Pork. We don’t really have either, just sheep and, mostly, goats. Citrus fruit. Well, most kinds of fruit.”

Making a mental note, Jaime speared a skinned shrimp and ate it slowly. It was so good he had to supress a moan. “Why don’t you all have scurvy, then?”

“We have vegetables, Jaime,” Brienne said reprovingly.

Jaime grinned at her. “You’re too easy, wench.”

Brienne frowned, although Jaime could tell from the light in her gorgeous blue eyes that she didn’t mean it. “Don’t make me regret peeling all those shrimp for you.”

“Ah, but I know you well enough to know that you’d do that for your worst enemy,” Jaime countered. “That’s your weakness. Kindness.”

Brienne stiffened, her eyes snapping. “Kindness is not a weakness.”

“I misspoke,” Jaime said quickly. “It’s your … defining quality. Brienne, I didn’t mean to fight with you. Brienne.” Fuck, he was on the edge of tears again. “Brienne,” he said desperately.

“You didn’t get any of Abelar’s egg-salad,” Brienne said calmly. “Here.” She scooped some from her own plate onto his.

Jaime blinked hard, and sampled it. “It’s good. What’s the spice?”

“No-one knows. Abelar’s dad told him on his death bed. Abelar swears he won’t pass it on until he’s on his.”

“Tyrion would call that a stunning lack of redundancy planning.” He ate more. “Or safeguarding a valuable intellectual property, I’m not sure which, he’s a lawyer, so probably both at once.”

Brienne laughed, and they were alright again.

After the food, there was dancing – someone had a fiddle, someone else had a drum, and apparently everyone on the island of Tarth sang except Brienne, who steadfastly refused to let Jaime coax her into either singing or dancing. He took his turn on the square of lawn that was doing service as a dancefloor with Maerie, and Florys, and two different Elaynes, mostly because they asked but partly because the fiddler was really quite good and knew all the old rousing tunes that went with the sort of dances that everyone learned in school that involved a lot of galloping from one end of the dance square to the other. None of them seemed to mind that he couldn’t hold them properly with his right hand and for several minutes at a time Jaime found himself forgetting about it himself.

He collapsed back into his seat afterwards and drained the glass of water Brienne pushed towards him before he picked up his beer. “Are all celebrations on Tarth this much fun?”

“You’re having fun?” Brienne looked faintly surprised, as if she’d assumed he was only participating to be polite. Jaime laughed, and she flushed a little. “I just meant, it can’t be what you’re used to.”

“And I’d rather spend seven hours watching every version of the worst horror movie ever made than _what I’m used to_, so the difference is not exactly a bad thing,” he pointed out. “Why won’t you dance with me? I promise not to tread on your feet.”

“I’d tread on yours,” Brienne said ruefully. “I’m too clumsy to dance.”

Having seen her with a sword in her hand, Jaime found that hard to believe, but he let it go.

As Brienne had warned him, the party wound down well before dawn, guests departing with whatever leftovers that couldn’t fit in the refrigerators and promises to help clean up the next morning. Brienne was yawning, as well, but she stubbornly shook her head when Jaime suggested she go to bed, insisting that it was her first Last Dark at home in years and she would do it properly.

“Let’s walk down to the beach,” she said. “That will wake me up.”

The crisp sea breeze certainly woke Jaime up, woke up him and made him wish for one of the enormous padded coats they’d all had to wear in Winterfell. It didn’t seem to bother Brienne, and Jaime tried to surreptitiously keep her between him and the ocean. At last they reached the end of the beach, where an outcrop of rocks cut the wind a little. Brienne sat down on the sand with her back to it, and Jaime settled himself beside her.

“I used to come here all the time after Galladon died,” Brienne said after a moment. “My brother, Galladon. Dad … I was too young to realise how he must have felt, every time he couldn’t find me, after what happened.”

“What did happen?” Jaime asked, because he knew she wanted him to, because the night of the Last Dark was the time for remembering the dead as well as of celebrating in defiance of the longest night of the year.

“He drowned. He was just eight. I was six. I don’t know exactly how it happened – no-one does, really. He was swimming with friends, and then he was gone, and by the time any of the grown-ups noticed, it was too late.” She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. “They carried him up to the house. I remember that. I sometimes think I remember before that, but maybe I’m making it up, but I remember that. The only thing I’m really sure I know about him, is that.”

“Wench.” Jaime put his arm around her hunched shoulders. “Let me tell you. When you were two, you thought it was hilarious to hit him in the face with your toys, even the ones with hard edges. When you first learned to walk, you chased after him and his friends every moment you were awake and screamed unconsolably when he didn’t let you catch up with him. So he relented, and then got into trouble with your father for letting you do things that were inappropriate. And he got in trouble for telling you ghost stories that gave you nightmares. You were frustrated that he was allowed to do things you weren’t, and he was irritated that you got to do things at an earlier age than he had.”

“How do you know?” Brienne asked softly.

“I was an older brother,” Jaime said. He squeezed her shoulder gently. “I mean, I’m sure a lot of things were different between you and Galladon than between Tyrion and me. There’s a lot more than two years between us, for one thing, and our father … let’s just say I only got into trouble for anything to do with Tyrion when Aunt Genna found out about it. But he did give me a black eye when he was two, whacking me in the face with a wooden horse. That _I’d_ bought him, too.”

Brienne gave a huff of laughter. “The ingratitude.”

“I had to tell the boys at school that I’d gotten it in a fight. Being beaten up by your baby brother isn’t exactly very manly.”

“Who did you tell them it was, that you fought?”

“He doesn’t go here, you don’t know him,” Jaime said promptly, and smiled as Brienne laughed properly. He tugged her gently. “Come closer, wench, I’m cold.”

She uncurled a little, and leaned against him. “Is that better?”

“Much.” She was warm and solid and reassuring, all muscle and strength and determination. Jaime could count on the fingers of his one good hand the number of people he’d embraced without a script calling for it and a camera running. _Tyrion. Aunt Genna. Cersei, of course._ Although he couldn’t remember ever having Cersei in his arms purely for affection or comfort. _We were never friends, that’s the thing. We were illicit lovers, we were bound together from childhood, but we were never friends, not like Brienne is my friend._ And Brienne felt very good to hold, as if she belonged in the curve of his arm in a way that made his chest oddly warm and his breath catch in his throat.

After a moment, she put her head on his shoulder. Jaime rested his cheek on the top of her head, and together they waited for the dawn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, kudosed and left comments. If you are enjoying the story and haven’t left a comment, please consider doing so! You have no idea how much it means to writers.


	35. Brienne XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Last Dark, the First Dawn.

First Dawn was always a quiet, solemn occasion on Tarth, not the raucous celebration of the rising sun that occurred in places like King’s Landing or Gulltown. Brienne took her place with the others carrying the boat down to the beach, wading into the frigid waves to set it adrift. She brushed her fingers across the scrolls that were littered across the bottom. No one she knew, not this year, with their names and lives carefully scribed by those who’d loved them. On numb feet, she trudged back to stand beside Jaime.

As gentle as her father was, Selwyn Tarth had a great booming voice when he needed it, and his words carried clear across the crowd of neighbours and distant relatives standing on the sand. “On this, the First Dawn of the year, we thank those who watched over us through the dark of the longest night. We return them to the storm that they find the peace of the sea and the waves. Their watch is ended.”

“Their watch is ended,” Brienne echoed with the rest. Jaime’s fingers crept into hers as the boat was cut loose for the tide to take it out, and Merywn lit the torch and threw it into the bottom of the boat. The fire took quickly, spreading to the gunwales before long, but the boat was still floating and burning as it passed out of the shadow of the hills behind them and into the sunlight to sink.

Jaime was uncharacteristically silent as Brienne led him back to her father’s house. Tired, Brienne supposed, even more than she was, for she’d dozed off a few times as they sat on the sand but Jaime had been awake each time she’d roused. She felt dazed and a little transparent – or as if the world had gone a little transparent. _Jaime must be asleep on his feet. _She ushered him to the spare bedroom, reminded him where the bathroom was, and then fell into her own bed still mostly clothed.

She was almost asleep when she heard the door of her bedroom open. “Dad?” she said without opening her eyes.

“No,” Jaime said, closing the door behind him.

Brienne rolled over to see him standing there with what looked like all the blankets she piled on the guest room bed in his arms. “What are you doing?”

“I’m cold.” He tossed the blankets over her. “Shift over, wench.”

“What?”

“Shift over,” Jaime said again, and crawled in beside her without further ado, despite the fact that her bed was scarcely big enough for her, let alone them both. Brienne considered shoving him off the edge of the bed, but found herself edging over to make room for him instead. “That’s better,” Jaime said, settling against her, six-feet-plus of lean muscle and long limbs that felt good in ways Brienne refused to think about. “You’re very warm, wench. Although your feet are fucking freezing.”

“Well, I was keeping them to myself until you insisted –” Brienne snapped, pulling them away from him.

“I mean, give them here and let me warm them,” Jaime said patiently, draping his own legs over hers.

Brienne tried not to think about what they must look like, a bizarre parody of romantic intimacy between the most beautiful man in Westeros and the ugliest woman in the world. “Jaime. You can’t be in here.”

“Relax, wench, I’m far too tired to have designs on your virtue. And far too tired for you to have any successful designs on mine.”

“That’s not what I mean. My dad –”

“Will surely not be astounded that his adult daughter has a man in her bed.”

“You don’t know much about fathers, do you?” Brienne said, instead of what she was thinking, which was _Anyone who’s ever seen me would be utterly astonished that I have a man in my bed._

He paused. “I thought we’d established that already.”

Jaime’s tone was light, but there was an edge to it that made Brienne’s heart hurt. Not, as she’d always assumed when reading the words, as a euphemism, but as a small keen pain in her chest that made her eyes fill with tears and that didn’t let up until she turned to face him and put her arms around him. She didn’t even think about how presumptuous it was to do so until she had, but Jaime didn’t seem to mind, just leaned against her. “Jaime. I just meant …”

“I know what you meant.” He wrapped his arm around her waist. “I’ve seen movies of what families are supposed to be like. If your father wanders into your bedroom in the next few hours, I’ll promise to marry you, alright? We can break our betrothal amicably at some future date. Now will you let me sleep? This is the first time I’ve been warm for at least ten hours.”

“I did tell you about the heating,” Brienne said, unable to stop her hand from smoothing his hair.

“You did,” Jaime agreed, and sighed, and went limp against her.

He was still there when she woke up, face buried against her neck, his body warm and slack alongside hers. It was entirely unfair that, even fast asleep, he was graceful. Brienne tried to disentangle herself and Jaime muttered in his sleep, arms tightening around her.

“Jaime,” she whispered. “I need to get up.”

“Too early,” he murmured, drawing her closer still, which she enjoyed more than she had a right to. “Shhh.”

Brienne eyed the light creeping under the edge of the blind. “It’s midmorning, Jaime, it’s not early.”

“Shhh,” he said again. “Sleepy. Early. Shhh.”

“If you let me get up, I’ll show you Evenfall Hall this afternoon,” she tried.

“And the ghost?” he roused enough to ask.

Brienne sighed. “Yes. We can look for the ghost. If you let me get up.”

Jaime raised his head and regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Yesterday you claimed there wasn’t a ghost. Are you trying to trick me, Brienne Tarth?”

“I’m trying to get out of bed without having to shove you onto the floor,” Brienne said. “Because I need the loo.”

Grumbling, he let her go. Brienne crawled down to the foot of the bed and clambered over the footboard, wondering how she was going to explain any of this to her father.

It turned out to be easier than she’d anticipated. Selwyn didn’t even question her assertion that _nothing happened, Dad. _Instead of being relieved, Brienne found it strangely hurtful. _Of course nothing happened. I’m me, and he’s Jaime Lannister. He didn’t think anything of climbing into bed with me because he was cold, because it’s not like I’m a real sort of woman. _Jaime probably thought she was a lesbian, come to think of it. He wouldn’t be the first or even the fifth hundred to make that assumption. _Big butch Brienne, the windbreak and heat source._

Brienne blinked back tears and sternly told herself to stop being stupid. It was ridiculously selfish for her to make any of this about her own feelings, especially when they were feelings she had no call to have. Jaime relied on her as a friend, at least for now as he struggled to deal with the changes his maiming had made to his life. Getting all upset that he would never see her as anything more when there had never been any chance of it in the first place was just stupid. She made herself a cup of terrible coffee and shredded some of the left-over crab from the previous night to fry up as crab cakes for breakfast. Or lunch, given the time.

She was browning them in a frypan when Jaime put his arms around her waist from behind. “Smells good,” he said.

Brienne tried not to shiver as his breath brushed her ear. “I’ve made enough for you.”

He chuckled. “I knew there was a reason you were my favourite person.”

“Tyrion would be hurt to hear it.”

“Tyrion never makes me delicious brunch.” He let go of her and wandered away. “I’m not sure I can face instant coffee, is there tea?”

“Cupboard two left of the sink.”

She heard him rummaging around, then the electric kettle humming. By the time she’d fried up the last batch of crab cakes, added them to the stack keeping warm in the oven, and turned around, Jaime was leaning against the counter sipping his tea. _More lounging than leaning, really_. Jaime Lannister even managed to stand still in an absurdly elegant manner. His hair was still damp from his shower, and he was dressed in what people in magazines wore to be photographed reading the weekend papers.

Brienne Tarth, on the other hand, had her work cut out for her getting the food on the table without falling over her feet and was excruciatingly aware that she was wearing yesterday’s clothes and a bright blue robe that had seen its better days some decades previously.

“Plates?” Jaime asked.

“I’ll get them,” Brienne said. “Sit down.”

“I’m actually quite able to carry a plate without dropping it,” Jaime said tightly.

“I just meant, you’re a guest.” _You’re a guest, and I’m an idiot who can be relied upon to say the wrong thing in the wrong way every time it matters._

“Oh.” Jaime sat down at the kitchen table and let Brienne get the plates and cutlery. “I – should’ve known better, wench. Forgive me?”

“I should have said it better. Um. Help yourself?”

She watched out of the corner of her eye as Jaime did, but he managed quite well, and if he had to hack them apart rather than manage to cut them neatly, he didn’t need her help to reduce the crab cakes to bite-sized pieces. His appetite was obviously back to normal, too. Brienne relaxed, and served herself, and nearly dropped her breakfast on the tabletop when Jaime took a bite and let out a moan that was practically obscene. “Wench, these are fantastic. Do you cook like this all the time?”

“No. I mean. I generally don’t have a fridge full of seafood leftovers to eat in the next three days.”

“You will have my enthusiastic co-operation in fulfilling your quest,” Jaime promised, and then fell silent to concentrate on the food. 

“I have to have a quick shower,” Brienne said when he pushed his empty plate away with a sigh. “And then we could walk over to Evenfall Hall. If you want.”

“Ghosts!” Jaime said happily, and gave her a beaming smile.

There were, of course, no ghosts at Evenfall Hall. There wasn’t even much of a hall left, although some of the towers and smaller buildings were still more-or-less intact. Brienne showed Jaime the armoury, empty now but still showing faint discolorations on the walls where, long ago, shields had hung. She couldn’t tell them whose they’d been, apart from, generically, _Tarths_ – Evenfall Hall had been abandoned so long ago there weren’t even records of why.

“There must be theories,” Jaime said, running his fingers gently over the stonework. “Why has it never been restored?”

Brienne snorted. “Who has the money? Who has ever had the money?”

He shrugged. “Heaps of places on the mainland seem to turn a profit. Renting to film companies and weddings and expensive parties. And tourism. Winterfell, for one. Castle Cerwyn. The Twins. Riverrun. There’s a whole town that’s permanently decked out like it’s the age of ice and fire.”

“Rosby,” Brienne said. “I’ve been. But Rosby is next door to King’s Landing, Riverrun and the Twins are historical monuments and get government support, and Winterfell, well, it’s never fallen out of use.”

“And it was built by Bran the Builder, and giants, so there’s that,” Jaime said, quite seriously except for the glint in his green eyes.

“Anyway, we’re too far away to make money renting Evenfall out. And even if I dug up the lost hoard of the Golden Company tomorrow and could afford to have it restored, I’d need to find another hoard every few years for maintenance. Do you want to see the rest?”

The stables had walls but no roof, and the horse-stalls had long ago rotted to dust. The bathhouse was still intact, although it had been hundreds of years since water had run through the pipes. Brienne took Jaime up the one tower that was still safe to see the view, which he enthused about, and then led the way to the ruins of the main building.

“Watch your feet,” she warned as they passed through the arch that had once been the main doors. “The floors are still mostly alright, but only mostly. This would have been the Great Hall, and over there is –” She turned, and found that Jaime was no longer behind her. “Jaime?” She went back to the door, but he wasn’t in the courtyard. “Jaime?” she called more loudly.

Silence. _He can’t have gotten lost. He was _right _behind me. And there’s nowhere for him to have gone. _“Jaime? Where are you?” Her voice echoed slightly off the thick stone walls of the Great Hall and when the echoes died down the silence rushed back, feeling thicker than before. “Jaime!” The thin breeze snaked through the doorway and touched her with chilly fingers, like a ghost. _There are no ghosts. There are no ghosts, of course, there are no ghosts._ “Jaime, where are you? Can you hear me?” Even though she knew he couldn’t have reached the stairs without passing her, Brienne went over to them. “Jaime?” she called upwards. “Jaime!”

Hands grabbed her by the waist and Brienne screamed and jumped what felt like three feet in the air. She spun around, raising her fists.

To see Jaime grinning at her, looking very pleased with himself. “I knew you secretly believed in ghosts.”

“Fuck.” Brienne lowered her hands and tried to slow her pounding heart. “Fuck, Jaime.”

“Did I scare you? Did you think I was a haunt?”

“Because being grabbed unexpectedly from behind would never unsettle a woman if she didn’t believe in ghosts!” Brienne snapped. She shouldered him aside and strode for the door.

“Brienne.” Jaime hurried after her and then got in front of her. His smile was gone. “Seven Hells, Brienne. I didn’t think. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m an idiot. A complete idiot. Are you alright?”

She was furious with him. She _was_. He was a thoughtless, irresponsible idiot who might have got himself a black eye or a broken nose, and Brienne was utterly livid, and she might never forgive him – and he was looking at her with desperate sincerity, and his green eyes were the same shade as the moss on the walls in this light, and –

Brienne sighed. “I did think you might be a ghost,” she admitted.

She thought he’d start looking smug again at her confession, but he didn’t. “Are you alright?” he asked again, quite seriously. “Do you want to sit down, or something?”

She shook her head. “Where were you?”

“Around the side of the front door, behind that big pillar.” Jaime gave a small shrug, looking rueful. “It was stupid. I didn’t think I’d really scare you. I thought you’d laugh that I’d tried. I didn’t – Tyrion always tells me I should think things through a bit more than I do.”

He looked so sad that Brienne put her hand on his arm. “It’s alright, Jaime. I’m – I was just startled, more than anything.”

“I’ll make a note.” He took her free hand in his. “Brienne Tarth is not a fan of jump scares.”

“I could have hit you,” Brienne pointed out. “Or broken your hand again.”

“I would have deserved it.” Somehow he’d captured her other hand. “So this is the Great Hall? Place of feasts and celebration?”

“Yes.” Her mouth was unaccountably dry, and she cleared her throat. “Um. I guess the Evenstar’s table would have been up there.” With her hands clasped in Jaime’s, Brienne couldn’t point, so she indicated with her chin.

“Here?” Jaime tugged her around, in that general direction, and then turned them. “Or here, maybe?”

“I’m not sure.”

“The kitchens, through there?” Another turn, a slow circle. It was like sparring, advance, retreat, turn … match and counter, mirror and turn … “And probably the musician’s gallery.”

“I suppose. Jaime, what are you doing?”

“Dancing,” he said. “That’s what one does in a Great Hall, isn’t it?”

“I can’t dance,” Brienne objected, as he turned her again.

Jaime smiled. “But you are.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Apparently you do.” He was closer to her, now, and he raised her right hand to rest on his shoulder, then put his hand on her waist. “Stop thinking about it.”

“Jaime, I –”

“Shhh,” he said, turning them again. Forward and back, left and right – there was no music, but he was right, they were dancing, and by some miracle Brienne’s feet knew what to do the way they knew what to do when she had a sword in her hand. Jaime’s hand on her waist burned like a brand, the muscles of his shoulder flexed and shifted beneath her fingers, and his gaze held hers. Left, and turn, and her head was spinning – she was holding her breath, Brienne realised, and tried to breathe but for some reason her heart was racing as if they were running, not dancing … And then he stopped, and let her go, and stepped back. “See?” 

“That was you,” Brienne said. Unaccountably, her hands were shaking, and she put them in her pockets.

“That was us,” Jaime corrected with a smile.


	36. Jaime XVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the dance ... NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit NSFW

Jaime didn’t regret dancing with Brienne Tarth of Tarth in the ruined hall of her ancestors – he’d been right, her fears of clumsiness were just self-consciousness – but as he followed her back down the hill to the cluster of houses that made up Evenfall village, he was very glad she was apparently too much of an innocent to realise how inappropriately he’d reacted to having her in his arms.

His research hadn’t been precisely specific on the topic, but Jaime was fairly sure getting a raging hard-on about one’s friends was definitely not allowed. He’d tried reciting the list of dragons from Thomax’s _Dragonkin, _which had always proved a reliable countermeasure in the past, when a script had put him in a potentially compromising position – but there were no cameras or lights or grips chewing gum to focus on, only Brienne’s wide blue eyes, and his silent _Arrax, Balerion, Caraxes, Dreamfyre _did not have the required deflating effect. 

Not to mention his sudden mad urge to kiss her, which was absurd. Brienne was his _friend_, and friends respect each other’s boundaries, that was on most of the lists he’d found through 3ER. _I’ve been celibate too long, that’s all_. It had been more than half-a-year since he’d stopped taking Cersei’s calls, and six months before that since she’d last let him touch her – a hurried fuck in the bathroom of a party they’d both been at, Cersei panting _don’t muss my hair, don’t muss my hair_ in his ear –

With relief, Jaime realised he was no longer quite so acutely embarrassed. 

“How long are you, that is, do you want to –” Brienne paused. “Um. Do you have a return flight booked?”

“No,” Jaime said. “If you – I can get the ferry, and Peck can pick me up, if you –”

“No, no,” Brienne said hastily. “You’re welcome, as long as you want – if you want –”

“Yes,” Jaime said, and they were both silent for a few moments. Finally he cleared his throat. “Do you – what would you like to do? This afternoon? Evening?”

“There’s not much nightlife on Tarth,” Brienne said. “There’s a restaurant in Morne that might be open? And a pub, that will definitely be open.”

“No, I meant –” _Seven Hells. _Suddenly they were abruptly strangers to each other again.“I’m not really one for the nightlife. I just wondered, what you had planned.”

“Dad and I usually cook dinner together, and eat, and watch TV.”

“Well, I can’t cook. But I can stir, under supervision. So I could help. And then we could watch TV.”

Brienne shot him a sideways glance, and there was, thank the gods, a glint of humour in her eyes. “Then I hope you like _Antiques Kingsroadshow _and_ Fishing With Brynden_.”

“They’re my favourites.”

Brienne snorted.

“I’m sure they’re going to be my favourites,” Jaime tried.

She snorted again, the corner of her mouth turning up.

He caught hold of her hand, only realising when he’d done so that he’d used his crippled right to do so. Brienne didn’t seem to notice that he could only close his thumb and forefinger around hers, only returned his grip. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy watching them with you.”

“You can’t heckle,” she warned. “I mean, if Dad wasn’t there, I wouldn’t mind. But he likes them.”

“I won’t heckle,” Jaime promised, tugging her closer. “I’ll be serious and appreciative and –”

Brienne burst out laughing. “You, serious?”

He gave her his best wounded look. “I’m very serious.”

It only made her laugh harder.

They were still hand-in-hand when they reached Selwyn’s house, and if Brienne missed her father’s glance, Jaime didn’t. He offered Selwyn Tarth his most sincere smile. _Which might not be all that sincere, given how much more practice I’ve had at villainous, sleazy, and insincere smiles over the_ _years._ At least it didn’t provoke Brienne’s father to act out the typical rom-com dad role and punch Jaime in the face.

Selwyn did manage to mutter a gruff _She’s a special girl_ to Jaime when Jaime was dutifully stirring the chowder.

_She’s fucking unique_, Jaime wanted to say, but he just nodded, and kept stirring.

It became apparent over dinner that Brienne had got her interest in history and mythology from her father. Jaime and Selwyn debated the legends of the Stormlands, with Brienne occasionally interjecting to point out that there was no proof for either of their opinions. The chowder was excellent. Jaime smugly attributed the quality to his stirring, which made Selwyn raise his eyebrows and Brienne laugh until she coughed.

_Antiques Kingsroadshow _was actually more interesting that Jaime had anticipated. He didn’t think that Melessa Florent had much understanding of the items on display, but she read from an autocue quite competently and both Bertram Beesbury and Alys Cuy clearly knew their stuff. His eyes kept wanting to close. _Not just last night. _He hadn’t slept well since the maesters had taken the cast off and a few hours sweet rest this morning had not been enough to keep it from catching up with him now. Jaime let his head rest on the back of the couch and listened to Beesbury and Cuy saying things like _despite unclear provenance, I’m confident that this is authentic_ and _your grandfather certainly got a good bargain on this_.

He wondered what they’d say if he turned up with Widow’s Wail. _Or if Brienne and I turned up with Widow’s Wail and Oathkeeper_. Not much, he thought. There was not much anyone would be able to say, confronted with Brienne wielding a Valyrian steel sword. _I yield_, was about the sum of it. Jaime definitely would. _But then, my wench wouldn’t be fighting against me. We’d be fighting side-by-side_. Against what, he couldn’t quite imagine, but he could see it behind his eyelids, the two of them, back to back, taking on wave after waves of enemies … 

_Jaime_, Brienne whispered. He managed to open his eyes, everything except Brienne’s face sliding slowly out of focus. _Jaime. _

_I’m kind of tired_, he tried to tell her, but his lips and tongue wouldn’t cooperate. And then her arms were around him and his head was on her shoulder and he drifted away into a warm darkness. When he surfaced again, he was horizontal, his head pillowed on Brienne’s muscular thighs. Her fingers were tracing through his hair and Jaime almost moaned aloud with how good it felt.

“I’ll get him to bed,” Brienne said quietly. _Yes, wench. Take me to bed._

“He’s fine,” Selwyn said. “He doesn’t snore as loudly as you do.”

Jaime could vaguely hear Brynden Tully’s explanation of the appropriate type of fly for fishing in the Green Fork_. I should try that. _The Green Fork was a less popular destination for sports fishers, which meant it was quiet, and peaceful, and a pleasant place to spend a day on a boat with a rod.

“He just … he did stay up all night.”

“Brienne,” Jaime managed to wake up enough to say.

She ran her hand over his hair. “Jaime?”

“Mmm.” He pressed his face more firmly against her legs and went out again.

When he slipped upwards once more, Brienne was saying, “I know, Dad. I remember what you said.”

“Hmmph,” Selwyn said. “Maybe you shouldn’t pay much attention to an old man, sweetling.”

Brienne hand stilled on Jaime’s hair. “What?”

“I … might have looked at your phone.”

“What?” Brienne cried.

She was upset. His wench was upset. “Brienne?” Jaime fought sleep, raised himself on his elbow. “Brienne, what’s … Brienne?”

“Hush,” Brienne soothed. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You’re fine. Shhh.”

“Brienne?”

“It’s alright now, it’s alright,” she assured him. “ Everything’s alright, Jaime.”

“Pirates?” He blinked at her blearily. “Mermaids?”

“No,” she said gently. “No merfolk pirates. Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep.”

He let her urge him back down into her lap. “Brienne.”

“Shhh.” Her hand was tender on his hair. “Shhh.”

“So nice,” he said, or though he said, letting the undertow take him again. Brienne was talking … Selwyn was talking … Brynden Tully was saying something about black flies and trailers …

“Can you get up?” Brienne whispered in his ear. “Jaime? Can you get up?”

He really didn’t want to. He wasn’t entirely sure if he’d ever been quite so comfortable as he was with his head in Brienne’s lap and her arms around his shoulders – except perhaps waking up with her arms wrapped around him – “Brienne.”

“Yes, Jaime. Wake up for me now. Wake up.”

He managed to open his eyes, although the room was slipping and sliding around him. “Brienne.”

“We need to go to bed,” Brienne said gently. She hoisted him to his feet, steadied him when he swayed. “Come on, now.”

Jaime let her steer him to the stairs, and up them. She paused in the hallway. “I’ll get your blankets.”

He managed to open his eyes enough to see a familiar door, and stumbled through it. There was a bed piled with blankets, and he fell onto it. _Jaime, that’s my bed_, Brienne said somewhere behind him.

“Wench,” he said, or he tried to say, dragging at the blankets.

“Alright.” She hoisted the covers over him. “Alright.”

Her arms were around him, her face pressed against the back of his neck. It felt right, it felt good. _So good_. He managed to raise his arm enough to lace his crippled fingers through her strong ones. _Brienne._

“Go to sleep, Jaime,” she whispered, so he did.

She was still there when he woke up, arm firmly around his waist. He opened his eyes to the pale grey light of dawn. The room was cold enough for him to see his breath but beneath the blankets, with Brienne’s solid warmth against his back, he was almost too warm. Almost, but not quite – just enough to make him want to bask in it like a lizard-lion in the sun.

Brienne stirred. “Jaime?”

“Hey.” He wanted to roll over so he could look at her, to see what colour her astonishing eyes would be in this light, but given his inconvenient morning erection, discretion suggested he stay with his back to her. “Sorry I passed out on you last night.”

“It’s alright.”

“I haven’t … well, I had a few bad nights. After.”

“I said it’s alright, Jaime.” Brienne squeezed his fingers.

“You’re very tolerant, as well as lovely and warm, wench.”

She chuckled sleepily. “Would it make any difference if I wasn’t, or would you just carry on doing whatever you wanted regardless?”

“Well, I’d feel bad,” Jaime said, and Brienne laughed again, her breath tickling his neck. That didn’t do much to assist him in getting rid of his hard-on. Nor, for that matter, did the way her body moved against his as she stretched a little. _No. Do not have inappropriate thoughts about your friend. You may be lonely and horny, but that’s no reason to be an asshole. _

“I should get up,” Brienne said, not moving. “Dad will be back soon.”

“From?”

“He goes out on the boat most mornings.”

“Wench, surely there’s enough seafood in the house already.”

“He just likes the water, even when he doesn’t try to catch anything.” She stretched again, and then settled back against him, hand resting on his chest. Jaime closed his eyes and tried to count how many Aegons and how many Darions had ruled the Seven Kingdoms, tried to remember which films had won an Iron Throne for cinematography in each of the past thirty years, tried to count imaginary beasts with eight or more legs … none of it helped. He was still hard as the Smith’s hammer.

He swallowed, and said hoarsely, “Maybe he’s a selkie.”

“You insisted they come from the Iron Islands,” Brienne pointed out.

“An immigrant?”

She laughed. “You’re impossible,” she said affectionately, and then, _thank each and every one of the Seven_, patted his shoulder and got out of bed. “Bags first shower.”

As she closed the door behind her, Jaime wondered if he had time to jerk off before she came back. He was almost tempted to try, but then, he didn’t know how long it would take him to get off with his unpractised left hand, and if she walked in on him – still wet from the shower, to see him thrusting into his fist – _Not helping. Very much not helping._

He stayed firmly under the covers until he heard Brienne go downstairs and then made for the bathroom himself. He told himself he should have a cold shower, but instead found himself standing under a warm spray, hand working his cock frantically, thinking and trying not to think about Brienne being naked and beaded with water just exactly where he was standing, trying not to imagine the way she would have rubbed the soap over her muscular arms and shoulders and over her small, high breasts and then slid her hand down to wash between her legs _oh fuck yes, Brienne, fuck, fuck_ –

He came hard, trying to stifle his groans, a blissful release that left him weak-kneed and trembling. _Maiden, mother, and crone_. The warm water washed away the evidence. After a moment, Jaime recovered enough to turn the water off and reach for a towel. _I really can’t do that again. Brienne is a friend. Decent people don’t masturbate to thoughts of their friends naked. _

He dried, and dressed, and went downstairs, hoping that Brienne wouldn’t be able to read in his face what he’d just been doing.

And thinking.


	37. Jaime XIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime spends a few days on Tarth

Brienne, thank the Seven, didn’t have a glass candle and greeted Jaime with one of her soft smiles, clearly completely unaware that he’d been frigging himself nearly senseless in her shower over the mental image of her naked body. _Does that constitute sexual harassment? _

His errant cock satisfied, he could hug her without fearing embarrassment, so he did. “Morning, wench.” The fact that she was taller than him made hugging her exceptionally pleasant, especially when she hugged him back with her strong arms.

“I hope you don’t mind fish at breakfast,” Brienne said. “Or I can do you some porridge?”

“Fish is fine.” Only the probability of Selwyn Tarth returning from the shore and misunderstanding why a man with Jaime’s reputation had his arms around Selwyn’s precious daughter made Jaime let Brienne go. “Anything’s fine. I’ll set the table.”

_Fine_ was an understatement for the mix of tender pink salmon, potatoes and onions with poached eggs on top. Jaime made short work of it, managed to restrain himself enough to not ask for seconds until Brienne and Selwyn had both taken them, and then made short work of the seconds.

“Do they not feed you in King’s Landing?” Selwyn asked, blue eyes twinkling.

“Your daughter should open a café,” Jaime said. “They’d queue twice around the Dragonpit for a breakfast like this.”

“She taught herself,” Selwyn said proudly. “Out of books. In self-defence, I suspect, given I can burn water.”

“Dad!” Brienne frowned at him. “That’s not true. It’s not true, Jaime. Dad is a very –”

“Adequate,” Selwyn said, grinning. “A very _adequate_ cook. Unlike my talented daughter.”

“Anyway, I enjoy it,” Brienne said, blushing a little. “It’s easy to be good at things you enjoy.”

“And you?” Selwyn asked Jaime. “I suppose you eat at restaurants more than you eat at home.”

“Jaime cooks all the time,” Brienne said quickly. “He –”

“Can fend for myself in a kitchen, but take-away does play a larger role in my diet than is entirely virtuous,” Jaime admitted. He raised his right hand a little. “Even before this.”

“You do very well,” Brienne said. “That Pentoshi dish you made last week looked delicious.”

_She defended me against the Brave Companions, she defended me against Meryn Trant, and she’ll defend me against myself, too_. Jaime smiled at his wench. “You’ll have to teach me a few of your secrets, though, while I’m here.”

“And how long will you be staying?” Selwyn asked. “I hope a few more days, at least. You really should come out on the boat at least once while you’re here, and there’s a music night at the _Safe Harbour_ tomorrow, in Morne. And I’ve got to go down to Aemon’s Falls the day after – probably stay the night – and I’d feel better knowing my girl wasn’t here on her own.”

“Dad, I’m perfectly capable of –”

“Of course,” Jaime interrupted. “I’m afraid I have no experience with boats, but I’m willing to learn. And I’d love to hear more of your island songs, and of course I’ll stay with Brienne while you’re away.”

Brienne glared at him. “I actually don’t need –”

“Thank you,” Selwyn said serenely. “That’s a great weight off my mind.”

“Humour him,” Jaime said to Brienne later, as they walked along the beach. “I’m sure he knows that if there really was an emergency you’d be the one carrying _me_ to safety.”

“He can just be such a _dad_,” she huffed with such indignation that Jaime couldn’t stop laughing, even when she poked him in the ribs hard enough to hurt.

He managed to stay awake that evening long enough to both learn something about Blackfish lures from _Fishing With Brynden_ and to seek his own bed – which was too big, and too cold for a decent night’s sleep. After a few hours he gave up and hauled his blankets back to Brienne’s room. She was too deeply asleep to do more than murmur and move over to make room from him when he slipped in beside her.

“It’s just me,” he whispered.

“Mmm.” She rolled over and draped her warm self over him. “Jaime …”

“Shhh. Don’t wake up.”

“Jaime, Jaime,” Brienne murmured again, shivered suddenly, and went limp. 

Jaime wrapped his arms around her and followed her into dreams.

She woke him before dawn to join Selwyn on his boat. It didn’t take long for Jaime to realise that a small boat on the Straits of Tarth was a very different proposition to his previous experience on the water, which had been a luxury yacht from Three Tower to the Arbor. Neither Brienne nor Selwyn seemed to think the water was particularly rough or the smell of the engine particularly noisome, so Jaime kept his eyes fixed on the horizon and tried to breathe through his mouth. He was desperately glad to clamber back onto the pier at the end of it, and he figured that Selwyn and Brienne had noticed despite being too tactful to mention it, because no-one said anything about Jaime and boats again. The nausea lingered for most of the day, which Jaime was actually thankful for because it certainly made sure his cock didn’t get any inconvenient ideas of its own.

Brienne drove them over to Morne that night in the big blue SVU that Jaime had finagled the purchase of, with assistance of Peck and a promise to the second-hand car dealer that Jaime would ostentatiously purchase his next luxury vehicle from the same place. The _Safe Harbour_ was a crowded, cheerful pub eclectically decorated with apparently random maritime items. The beer was unexceptional but the fish and chips were outstanding and the music ranged from passable to excellent. There was one slender girl barely as tall as Jaime’s shoulder – _which on Tarth probably means she’s twelve –_ who sang a ballad about the Winter Rose that Jaime had never heard, a little shaky on the rhyme scheme but with a haunting minor key to the chorus. When Jaime asked her about it, she shyly admitted that she’d written it herself, so he gave her Joy Hill’s number and a strong suggestion she get some representation. That led to a long conversation with her parents and some of the other patrons about the music industry and contracts and agents, which segued into a more general discussion of music, which ended with the entire pub singing _The Last of the Giants_ at a volume that made the windows rattle. Jaime was sure he even saw Brienne’s lips moving, although she steadfastly refused to let him draw her to her feet to bounce along to the refrain with the rest of them.

Then they did _Iron Lances_ and _The Queen’s Sandal_, and when Jaime admitted he knew some of the older songs of the Westerlands he was coaxed into giving them _Seasons of Love _and even _The Rains of Castamere_, which usually made his stomach upset given its status as his father’s favourite song but fuck it, he’d actually played the Red Lion on screen and it was just a song, with a sweet, sad melody if it was sung properly and not bastardised into some sort of triumphal march.

Still, his hands were shaking a little when he sat down again, but they stopped when Brienne laced her fingers through his and leaned her shoulder against him. “We should go, soon,” she said softly. “Dad needs his sleep.”

Jaime eyed Selwyn, who was engaged in animated conversation with the older woman who’d played an impressively punk version of _The Lusty Lad_ on electric guitar earlier in the evening. “I’m not sure he’d welcome you dragging him away, wench.”

Brienne followed his gaze. “Oh, that’s just Alyssane Storm, from Aemon’s Falls. She’s probably trying to get in early on his visit tomorrow. Some fence or pothole or whatever.”

“Mmm.” Selwyn leaned forward, making his point with a hand on Alyssane’s arm. Jaime grinned. “So she’s from where-ever it is that your father for some reason needs to stay overnight tomorrow?”

“He quite often does,” Brienne said. “It’s a long drive for a man of his age.”

He laughed. “Wench. There’s nowhere on this island that’s a long drive for a man of any age.” Alyssane was laughing, eyes sparkling, and Selwyn beamed down at her. “I think I’ve uncovered the secret of the frequent potholes in Aemon’s Falls.”

Brienne frowned. “How do you know they’re frequent?”

And fuck, whether it was the beer or the music or the innocent confusion in her astonishing eyes, but the absolutely insane urge to kiss her swept over Jaime so strongly he could barely breathe. _She’s your friend, you asshole. Do not sexually harass your friend._ _Most definitely do not sexually harass your friend in front of her father and a pub full of her no-doubt distant relatives, any one of whom could probably tear your arms off, if Brienne didn’t do it first. _Gods be good, her eyes were impossibly blue. “Brienne,” he said hoarsely.

“Oh.” Her eyes widened, watching her father and Alyssane. “They’re …”

Jaime wrenched his gaze from her face and stared at the half-empty glass in front of him. “I suspect so.”

“Well, good,” Brienne said slowly. “I mean, Mum died when I was three. I know he keeps busy but I have worried sometimes that he’s lonely.”

Jaime snorted. “Wench, _getting busy_ is precisely the reason I doubt he’s lonely.” 

Her cheeks coloured. “Alright, that’s enough. Double entendres about my dad are off limits.”

Brienne did manage not to blush when Selwyn came over to tell them that Alyssane was going to give him a lift home later, and they shouldn’t wait up, just nodded matter-of-factly, although after he’d gone, she turned her face to Jaime’s shoulder and said, muffled, “I’m now worrying about whether or not my Dad has condoms, so thanks for that,” which made Jaime laugh far more than Brienne appreciated. When morning revealed that Selwyn hadn’t made it home at all – although he had sent a text to keep Brienne from worrying – Jaime laughed again.

He had to stay in bed until Brienne was downstairs again, because his libido having apparently woken up from hibernation, morning erections were now seemingly going to be a regular thing. And a persistent thing, evidently, because he had to jerk off in the shower again to get rid of it, although he managed not to think about Brienne as he did it – or at least, not much.

Given the way he’d been eating the past few days, Jaime told Brienne after breakfast that he really needed to go for a run, if she didn’t mind. Not only didn’t she mind, she put on her own running shoes and drove them inland to a trail that ran through meadows and vales, over steep hills and past waterfalls. Jaime was able to keep up with her, which he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to do even a few weeks ago, so chalk one up to Sandor Clegane and a mental note to drop the name of his trainer again the next time Jaime found himself in front of a camera.

Afterwards Brienne drove them across the island to Dreamfyre Point, where the long rolling waves of the Narrow Sea crashed against the cliffs. Jaime pointed out once again that there was nothing on the island that was precisely a long drive away from Evenfall, Brienne glared at him, and then they spent a pleasant afternoon wandering along the cliff-tops and pretending they could see Pentos and the Flatlands across the ocean.

_We’ll always have Pentos_, Jaime had said to Cersei the day she married Robert Baratheon, and she’d looked at him as if he’d grown a second head and said _We’ve never been to Pentos_. Because she’d never seen his favourite movie and couldn’t recognise the quote and fuck, he should have known then, in that moment –

“Jaime, are you alright?” Brienne asked gently, her hand on his arm, and he realised his eyes were watering with the wind and there was absolutely no way he could explain any of it to her, not and have her still look at him with that honest, open friendship.

He turned to look out across the waves. “I was just thinking – the problems of two little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.”

Her mouth turned up in a smile. “But we’ll always have Pentos.”

And really, there was only one thing he could do in response to that, which was take her chin between his fingers and tip her face down a little so he could look in her eyes. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” He let her go as she blushed. “No-one these days knows _Volantis_.” 

“It’s one of my favourites,” Brienne said. She shrugged a little, looking a little embarrassed. “I mean. I know it’s sentimental –”

“It’s the greatest movie ever made,” Jaime said sincerely. “Barristan Selmy in his prime? Elia Martell in her last role? I came to Volantis for the waters? Of all the mead joints, in all towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine?”

“We could … well, I have the DVD. If you haven’t seen it too many times.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist and turned her back towards the car. “Wench, there is no such thing as having seen _Volantis_ too many times.” 

They ended up sprawled on her father’s couch for most of the afternoon, watching _Volantis_ and then _The Dragon Whisperer_ – which was as silly as Jaime had predicted when he’d opted for a hard pass on watching it when it came out, but he kept his opinions to himself because Brienne was glued to the screen. After that she dug out _Sleepless in Highgarden_, which was even sillier – as if you could fall in love with someone just by talking to them over the phone – but by then Jaime had realised that his wench had a romantic streak that he would never have suspected, so he sat and watched and pretended not to notice that she got teary-eyed when the protagonists finally met at the top of the Hightower.

_When Duncan Met Rohanne_ was her next selection. At least the chemistry between the leads was convincing – well, it was genuine, Jaime clearly remembered the tabloid frenzy when Salladhor Saan and Mya Stone had left their respective partners for each other during the making of the movie. But the whole premise of the movie was preposterous. As if Duncan and Rohanne could carry on a friendship as close as the movie claimed it to be for all that time without realising they were in love with each other … as if anyone could confuse friendship and love. Love was a blinding, consuming obsession, like he’d had for Cersei. Friendship was completely different, friendship was what he had with Brienne: it was wanting to be with the other person, not in bed but everywhere – it was needing to know what they thought about a movie or a book or an interesting theory about manticores, it was wanting to share favourite foods and fascinating stories and perfect sunsets with them, it was feeling your heart lift every time you managed to make them smile, or better, laugh. It was feeling somehow more whole and complete when you were with them, especially when their arms were around you and yours were around them, it was feeling safe and cherished when they ran their fingers through your hair. Friendship was when the other person’s unhappiness made you miserable and angry, friendship was when you wanted to talk to the other person first thing in the morning and last thing at night and all the rest of the time as well, because even the sound of their voice at the other end of the phone made the day brighter and better.

It was watching really stupid movies without pointing out their flaws because your friend liked them and you’d rather tear out your tongue than hurt their feelings, as he was doing at precisely this moment, and pretending not to notice that she was sniffling a little at the sad scenes. Jaime stroked her hair, hoping she found it as soothing as he did when she did it to him, and apparently she did because she leaned more heavily against him, arms around his waist.

“I hope it’s not a spoiler,” he said softly, “but they live happily ever after in the end.”

Brienne snorted, and poked him. “I’ve seen it before.”

But she still cried at the final scene, more than Jaime would have expected, enough to make his stomach upset.

And refused to tell him why.


	38. Tyrion II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime needs advice. Tyrion and Bronn might not be the best people to seek it from.

Tyrion reached across the table past the wine glasses and snapped his fingers in front of Jaime’s face. “Hello? This is the point in the conversation where you say something, dear brother.”

Jaime blinked. “Sorry. I – what did you say?”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. “I said that I can draw up a contract for you if you like, but that you’ll need to attach your talent before you can even consider getting finance, and I’d recommend commissioning a script even before that. Tycho Nestoris was … not unencouraging, but not decidedly enthusiastic, either.”

“Oh, alright,” Jaime said, still a little vaguely.

“Alright?” Tyrion said, miffed. “Do you know how many otherwise billable hours I spent on this? You talked my ear off for two hours on the phone from Tarth. If you’ve lost interest, you could have told me earlier.”

“I haven’t lost interest,” Jaime said. “Sorry. I’m very grateful for your help, little brother. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Do you,” Tyrion said with studied neutrality. He sipped his wine. “I haven’t seen you since you got back from your holiday. Island life suited you, it appears. Although you should probably learn to trim your beard yourself, though, if you’re going to spend much time away from barbers.”

Jaime rubbed his chin, seemingly unaware that he’d used his right hand to do so. “I should probably learn to shave myself, too, if I even want to get back in front of the camera.”

“You’re planning that?”

Jaime shrugged. “Joy says she’s fielded a couple of offers. Small parts, glorified extras really, but it’s work.”

“And are you … forgive me for asking, but are you ready to work?”

“I can’t wave a sword without risking cutting something off someone – or myself – but Joy said they weren’t those kind of roles. One’s even contemporary, apparently.” Jaime picked up his wineglass, put it down again. “Brienne thinks I should take them.”

_Oh, _Brienne_ does, does she?_ “Mmm,” Tyrion said. “And how is your wench?”

“Don’t call her that,” Jaime said, as if he hadn’t peppered his own conversations for the past month with _the wench_ this and _the wench_ that.

“How is Brienne?” Tyrion corrected himself. “Still on her island?”

Jaime shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, but she’s coming to King’s Landing tomorrow. She’s got a job in Rosby starting next week.”

“You don’t sound particularly pleased.”

Jaime opened his mouth, and then closed it again as the front door of Tyrion’s house opened and closed again. A moment later Bronn appeared in the doorway of the dining room.

“I’ve got Yi Ti capon, boar ribs, lemon pigeon … you didn’t say what sort of rice you wanted, so I got all three as well as noodles.” He set the cartons on the table. “I see that while I was slaving over a hot takeaway menu you two couldn’t even pour me a drink.”

“You’re perfectly capable of pouring your own drink,” Tyrion said, noticing that Jaime didn’t hesitate to start serving the food, and he seemed quite comfortable about using his now-clumsy right as much as he could. That was new, since Tarth.

“I am, and since I’m such a nice fellow, I’ll even fetch you two layabouts a second bottle.” Bronn suited the action to the words, and sat down. He eyed his plate. “You’re getting to be less of a useless fuck, aren’t you?”

Tyrion bristled, but Jaime only smiled. “I’m certainly trying to.”

“So why aren’t you pleased your wench – yes, I know, Brienne, _Brienne_ – is coming to visit?” he asked as soon as his brother’s mouth was too full for Jaime to interrupt the question.

Jaime glared at him, chewing. He swallowed. “Sometimes having a lawyer as a brother is really fucking annoying. Do you ever let a topic drop?”

“Constitutionally unable to, and contractually forbidden,” Tyrion said blithely.

“Who’s the wench?” Bronn asked with his mouth full.

“Her name is Brienne,” Jaime said.

“I’d gathered that much.” Bronn refilled his glass, and then Tyrion’s.

“You met her at the hospital in Moat Cailin,” Tyrion said. “The tall one.”

“Everyone’s _the tall one_ to you,” Bronn said.

“The really tall one,” Tyrion said.

“Oh, her. I like her. She gave me my coffee back.” Bronn winked at Jaime. “If you’re bored of her, I’ll happily take her off your hands and show her a good time.”

“I’m not bored with her!” Jaime snapped, fingers tightening on his fork until his knuckles were white.

Bronn shrugged. “Then what’s the problem?”

“Crone’s cunt, will the two of you drop it?” Jaime snarled. He flung his fork on his plate and picked up his glass, taking what Tyrion considered to be a disrespectfully large gulp of the expensive vintage.

“Well, we definitely won’t drop it now,” Bronn said cheerfully. “So you may as well avail yourself of our wisdom and experience.”

“_Avail_ myself? Have you been taking night classes, or something?” Jaime asked.

“It’s one of the downsides of working with this one.” Bronn indicated Tyrion with his knife. “Plays hob with my vocabulary. My street cred’s gone to shit. What’s your problem with this woman?”

“I do not have a problem with Brienne,” Jaime said, and to anyone who didn’t know him as well as Tyrion did he would have seemed quite calm.

“It seems unlikely she has a problem with you,” Tyrion said, “given she’s coming to visit.” 

“Yes, well, that’s …” Jaime took another gulp of wine. “She’s my friend. Actually I think she might be my best friend.”

“I’m hurt,” Bronn said sunnily. “I’m going to have to eat the rest of the Yi Ti capon to get over it.”

Tyrion studied Jaime over the rim of his glass. “So … you’ve made a friend. This must be how parents feel on the first day of pre-school. Well done, little Jaime, I knew you’d have fun if you just talked to the other children. Did you play in the sandbox?”

Jaime snorted. “Alright. We’re all well aware of my social inadequacies.”

“I’m still not seeing the problem.” Bronn refilled Jaime’s glass. “She’s your friend. She’s coming to visit. You can … do whatever rich fucks like you do with your friends.”

“The _problem_,” Jaime said a little desperately, “is that I keep thinking about her.” 

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “Thinking about her? Um. Jaime, people do often think about their friends.”

“Thinking inappropriate things,” Jaime said between gritted teeth.

“So as your brother and your lawyer,” Tyrion said carefully, “when you say _inappropriate_, are they entirely legal inappropriate thoughts or are you, just to draw a completely random example out of thin air that has nothing to do with any of my clients, finding yourself seized with the urge to dismember her in your bathtub?”

Jaime stared at him. “Of course not!”

Bronn began to laugh. “Do you mean to tell me that all this palaver is because you want to fuck her? Why not just fuck her?”

“She doesn’t think about me that way about me. She’s my friend.”

“Every woman in Westeros thinks about you that way, it’s frankly very irritating.”

“Not Brienne. I mean, it was hard enough to get her to be friends with me, and that was mostly because she felt sorry for me and I took advantage of her over it.” Jaime took another gulp of wine. “And I don’t think about her that way, either. We’re _friends_.”

“Forgive me, Jaime,” Tyrion said slowly, “but isn’t the entire reason for this conversation that you _do_ think about her that way?”

Bronn got up and peered at Jaime’s ear. Jaime flinched away. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to tell if I can see daylight clear out the other side of your head, you numbskull, because clearly whatever’s in your head isn’t being used for thinking.” Bronn flung himself back into his chair. “How anyone who looks like you can get to your age without having acquired the faintest clue about how to hit on a woman is beyond me. Take her out to dinner. Suggest she come back to your place for a nightcap. Sit next to her on the couch, hold her hand, and then put it on your cock.”

“Maybe not,” Tyrion said quickly. “Brienne struck me as being a little shy. Forthright, when called for, but shy.”

“I can’t hit on her,” Jaime explained with visible exasperation. “We’re friends.”

“You might be … more than friends?” Tyrion asked. “I mean, you could become more than friends?”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Little brother, I know you consider me the most socially inept individual in Westeros, but I know – I mean, I have been in love, I know what’s it’s like. That’s not how I feel about Brienne. And I’ve been in the industry my entire adult life and I know how women behave when they have romantic intent.”

Bronn guffawed. “Romantic intent? You’ve been spending far too long making movies about the age of fucking chivalry, mate.”

“The point is, she’s going to be arriving tomorrow. And she’s staying with me. And she’s going to expect to, well, do the things we do together. And sooner or later she’s going to notice that I … respond to her in a way a good friend wouldn’t.”

“I need a translator app,” Bronn said. “You mean she’ll see your stiffy?”

“Well,” Tyrion said, “I can recommend several extremely discreet women who are guaranteed to exhaust you beyond the possibility of any inconvenient reactions to your – to Brienne.” Jaime shook his head, which didn’t surprise Tyrion. His brother had once confessed he’d been faithful to Cersei since she’d taken his virginity, which utterly baffled Tyrion given the absolute banquet of beautiful woman throwing themselves at his feet. _That’s Jaime, though. _Bedding was just bedding, as far as Tyrion was concerned, admittedly better if it was with someone you liked but perfectly enjoyable even with strangers you were paying. _ But Jaime … Jaime probably even calls it ‘making love’, at least in his own head._

“Then it seems your only option is to spank your plank on a regular basis,” Bronn said. “You do know how to do that, don’t you?”

Jaime shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The problem is I … think about her when I …”

_Stranger fuck me frozen_. _He actually feels guilty about it. _Not for the first time, Tyrion wondered how he and Jaime could actually be related. “That’s … normal?” he hazarded.

“But what if she can tell?”

Bronn laughed so hard he fell off his chair.


	39. Brienne XV

It took Brienne most of the day to realise that there was something wrong.

Jaime seemed normal, when she arrived. Quite well, actually. He came down to let her drive into the apartment block’s parking garage looking fit and healthy and cheerful, admired the gun-safe she’d had bolted to the floor of her car’s boot to keep Oathkeeper safely locked away, and produced coffee and pastries once they were upstairs. He was completely at ease with the various gadgets in his apartment and seemed unselfconscious about his right hand. He went to his physiotherapist, leaving her alone in his apartment, and then they went for a run together along the old walls with Jaime demonstrated his reacquired fitness by keeping up a constant flow of chatter about the various battles and sieges that had taken place on the ground beneath their feet. They showered, ate Dornish takeout, Jaime suggested a movie, and Brienne settled herself in her usual position on the couch. All normal.

Jaime took the armchair.

Brienne sat and stared at the movie playing on his television without seeing it, feeling the hot lump in her throat slowly settle into a cold, sick feeling in her stomach. Now she looked back over the day, he hadn’t touched her once since she’d arrived: none of his usual touches to her hand or her arm to make a point or get her attention, not walking close enough to her that their arms brushed. He’d opened the door for her when they got back from their run, but without his habitual hand at the small of her back to usher her through.

_Does he know? _She’d been so careful to disguise the way each casual touch made her heart speed up and her stomach flip, the way his hugs started a tingling warmth building low in her stomach, the sudden breathless feeling she got sometimes just looking at him. _But perhaps not careful enough_. That was one explanation for why he’d clearly decided she was a no-go zone, that the random hugs and the way he curled against her side while they watched movies or fell asleep with his head in her lap had to stop.

Another, of course, was that he’d recovered from whatever temporary affection their shared experience had produced, and was too polite to tell her outright. That would be a very Jaime thing to do, to be too nice to do anything but let her gradually get the hint. _Maybe I was wrong about him, sweetling,_ her father had said after Jaime’s visit to Tarth, but now Brienne realised that he hadn’t been wrong at all. Her dad had tried to warn her, back in Moat Cailin, but she’d let herself lie to herself, because Jaime was funny and sweet and affectionate and made her laugh and obsessed about history to an even greater degree than Brienne herself did. _But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t ever real, to him._

_Just to me._

With horror, Brienne realised that she was going to cry – not just get teary, not sniffle, but actually start outright sobbing, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

“I’m actually a bit tired,” she said, and bolted into the guest bedroom without waiting to hear what Jaime said in response.

She shut the door behind her, snatched a pillow from the bed and buried her face in it before the first loud, gasping sob burst free.

Jaime tapped gently on the door. “Brienne?”

“Sec,” she managed to get out before muffling her bawling in the pillow again. _Mother’s mercy, let me stop crying, let me stop crying._

“Is everything alright?”

“F-f-fine!”

“Because you sound like you’re crying,” Jaime said. He tapped again. “Brienne? Can I come in?”

_Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying …_ “I’m j-j-just tired.”

“Brienne, friends are honest with each other, I read that on the weirnet.” He paused. “I’m going to open the door on the count of ten, so if you’ve taken your clothes off, put on a robe. Or not, if you don’t mind me seeing you naked. You’ve seen me naked, more than once. You’ve also seen me vomiting – well, the entire audience of _One Thousand Eyes and One_ have seen that – you’ve seen me shit myself, and you’ve certainly seen me cry. That’s ten.”

Behind her, the door opened. Brienne made one more desperate effort to control herself, to no avail. “I’m, I’m, I j-j-just –”

And then the pillow was taken from her hands and Jaime’s arms were around her, warm and strong, and she could smell the familiar cinnamon-and-orange of his expensive shampoo and he was murmuring _hush, it’s alright, it’s alright, it’ll be alright_ in her ear and rubbing her back. She didn’t have enough willpower not to lean into his embrace.

The horrible cold ache in the pit of her stomach began to ease and she managed to get enough breath for the awful gulping sobs to slow. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Jaime asked quietly.

“Not really.”

“Is it something at home? Is your Dad alright? Did the job fall through?”

“None of those.”

“And you’d tell me if you needed my help with something? If you were in trouble somehow, or someone had done something?”

“I would.”

Her tears finally stopped, but Jaime didn’t let her go. “Well, friends respect each other’s boundaries, so if you don’t want to talk about it, I respect that. But friends also support each other, and my research suggests that in this sort of situation, that should involve either ice-cream or hippocras.”

Brienne frowned in confusion. “Research? What are you talking about?”

“I looked into it. On the weirnet.” Brienne raised her head from his shoulder and stepped back a little to be able to look at him. Jaime let her go immediately. “See? Good boundary respecting.”

“Jaime, you’re making absolutely no sense.”

“I wanted you to be my friend,” he explained – patiently, as if it was all very obvious and she was being slightly slow in not grasping it. “And I thought that if I was a really good friend to you, you’d like being friends with me. But I don’t have a lot of experience at being friends with people, being me, so I looked it up. Do you want ice-cream, or hippocras? Or both, I can arrange both. Do they mix?”

“You looked up how to be my friend,” Brienne said slowly. _Have I lost my mind? Or has he?_

“Was that the wrong thing to do?” Jaime asked, looking suddenly nervous. “I like talking to you. I like _you_. I wanted – was it the wrong thing to do?”

“It’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” Brienne said honestly.

“Oh,” Jaime said, and grinned with evident relief.

“And I don’t like hippocras, and I’m too full for ice-cream, but a cup of tea would be nice?”

Jaime nodded. “I can definitely do tea.”

“I need to wash my face, first.”

There was a limit to what cold water could do, and Brienne was uncomfortably aware that her eyes and nose were still red and her skin blotchy – women in movies or on television shows always seemed to look beautiful when they cried, but Brienne did not have the knack – when she made her way back out into the living room. Jaime had made two mugs of tea and they sat steaming gently on the coffee table in front of where he sat on the couch.

Brienne perched as far from him as she could manage. _Friends respect each other’s boundaries_. It was true, no matter how bizarre it was to hear it from a man who had blithely climbed into her bed on more than one occasion. “Um. You don’t have to sit with me, if you’d rather …” She nodded at the armchair.

“And if I’d rather sit with you? Would you rather I didn’t?”

“No,” Brienne admitted quietly.

“Then come here and drink your tea, wench.” He raised his arm and Brienne edged towards him and let him put it around her shoulders. She picked up her tea and blew on it. “The movie wasn’t really that bad, was it?”

Brienne couldn’t help chuckling. “It wasn’t the movie.”

“Mmm.” Jaime squeezed her shoulder. “Notice how well I’m respecting your boundaries, despite being desperate to find out what’s wrong so I can fix it or stab it or throw it out a window?”

_Friends are honest with each other._ When it came down to it, Brienne didn’t exactly have a huge amount of experience with having friends either. _Maybe Jaime wasn’t completely mad, looking it up. _“I like being friends with you,” Brienne said slowly.

Jaime went still. “But? I sense a _but_.”

“No. There’s an _and_. I like being friends with you, and when you … I thought that maybe … I felt like maybe you … we weren’t. Anymore. The same way.”

“Ah.” Jaime raised his hand from her shoulder to her hair. “Well, wench. Here’s the thing. I like being friends with you. But, embarrassingly, I’m also an increasingly healthy adult male who has been celibate for a year or so and … I’ve been getting the occasional inconvenient erection. And, you know. I didn’t want you to think I wanted to get into your pants.”

“Oh.” If the blazing heat in her cheeks was any indication, Brienne was blushing the approximate colour of a tomato. “No, I wouldn’t think that.” _I might be stupid enough to have a crush on you, but I’m not stupid enough to think I have a chance_.

“Just, you know. Ignore it. If it happens.”

Brienne was utterly certain that of all the things she could will herself to ignore, Jaime Lannister’s erect penis was not one of them. _But I can pretend._ She nodded. “I will.”

“Good.” He sounded quite relieved. “I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“I won’t,” Brienne promised. _As if I would._


	40. Brienne XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne starts work on a new film. NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW!

Brienne spent three very nice and mostly normal days with Jaime, training with him and Sandor, running every day, curled up on the couch with him watching old movies in the evenings. He certainly hadn’t been kidding about the _inconvenient erections_, although Brienne wasn’t sure she’d have described them as _occasional_.

_Not that I know enough about men to know what qualifies as occasional. _She tried not to look, but every time she stole a glance there seemed to be an obvious bulge at his fly or an even more obvious tent if he was wearing something looser than jeans. She wondered if it was uncomfortable, the way she sometimes felt restless and hot when Jaime pulled her feet into his lap to rub them while they watched _Sunspear Vice_ or when he ran his fingers through her hair as she nestled against his shoulder. It certainly made her fidgety to wonder if he relieved that tension after they’d gone to their separate beds, right there in the next room to her, fidgety enough to need to slip her hand between her legs and rub and press until she was gasping into her pillow chasing the sharp twist of release. He’d look beautiful doing it, if he did, because Jaime looked beautiful and graceful doing everything, he was at home in his own body the way Brienne couldn’t find a way to be at home in hers, he’d fuck his own hand with gorgeous abandon …

Brienne groaned softly, and reached between her legs again. _It’s just a harmless fantasy, it’s no worse than all the women who don’t know him doing the same thing, probably right now … he’d go slow, at first, taking his time, his eyes would drift closed … then he’d start to forget himself. If he was here, if he’d crawled into bed with me because of the cold, he’d be pressed against my back ... it would be his hand, not mine, his fingers there, right there, like that, like that, Jaime, like that please, please, please please please!_

But apart from her illicit fantasies and Jaime’s involuntary arousal, it was a very nice, normal visit, even including the argument they’d almost had over whether _Smallfolk Kane_ was a classic or a masterpiece. Brienne was sorry to pack her car for the drive to Rosby, and readily agreed to Jaime’s invitation to come back as soon as the movie she was working on had finished filming.

_After all, he’ll probably have a girlfriend by the time I come back, so he won’t be quite so frustrated, which means I won’t be so preoccupied with the state of his penis. _

There was absolutely nothing distracting about imagining Jaime in bed with a beautiful actress.

The film Davos Seaworth had found a job for Brienne on was … well, she could imagine what Jaime would say about it, and none of it was complementary. It was a rom-com, about a girl – definitely a girl, not a woman – disguised as a knight, trying to win the favour of another knight who thought she was a boy.

“It’s called _Pretty in Platemail,_” Brienne told Jaime over the phone at the end of her first day.

He whooped with laugher, loud enough for her to need to hold the phone away from her ear. “Brienne?” he squawked faintly. “Brienne?”

“I’m here,” she said, bringing the phone closer again. 

“What’s she like, your star?”

“Pretty,” Brienne said succinctly. “In or out of platemail.”

“Can she hold a sword?”

“I have two weeks to make her able to hold a sword.”

“Oh, wench,” Jaime said with sympathy. “Who is she? I might know her.”

_She’s pretty, and an actress. Of course you know her_. “Roslin Frey.”

“Oh, I do know her.” Jaime sounded surprised. “You’ll be fine, wench, she’s a hard worker. A real professional, even if she’s young.”

“You’ve worked with her?” _Of course he has. She beautiful. He pretended to kiss her, to fuck her, he probably wanted it to be real …_

“She played my daughter in _Squire School Musical_,” Jaime said. “I was the evil arms-master trying to destroy the school, she was the innocent girl who eventually revealed my plans to her classmates. Who’s your production manager?”

“Someone called Randyll Tarly?”

Jaime groaned. “Keep out of his way, if you can. He’s a complete cunt to female staff.”

“You mean, like …”

“No, no, no. He won’t try and feel you up. He’s just a misogynist.”

“Just,” Brienne said flatly.

“So I heard how that sounded when it came out of my mouth,” Jaime said. “I mean, I’ve never heard of him raping anyone. But I’ve heard of him treating women like shit.”

“Good to know,” Brienne said. “I can take care of myself, though. Either way.”

“Of course you can.” Jaime paused. “Can I call you tomorrow? Same time?”

“Sure,” Brienne said, a little surprised. “You can call me. You call me when you want, my phone is on silent when I can’t answer.”

“Alright,” Jaime said. “Sleep well, wench.”

“Sleep well, Jaime.”

Roslin Frey was as hard a worker as Jaime had said. There was really nothing Brienne could do to make her look convincing as a knight in platemail – they’d need a good six months of physical training for that – but she was game, and she tried and tried and tried again to learn the fight scenes. _Well, with stunt doubles, it might work_, Brienne told herself.

As they got closer to the first day of shooting, the rest of the crew trickled in. Brienne missed Ygritte, but she had her own trailer at least, tiny but she wasn’t sharing with anyone she didn’t know. Hyle Hunt and Rod Connington were also on _Pretty in Platemail_, along with Richard Farrow, Mark Mullendore and Harry Sawyer, all from the short-lived _Oathkeeper_ shoot. It was nice to work with people she already knew, and the guys were certainly more friendly than her colleagues in the Gold Cloaks or the Rainbow Guards had been. There was always someone bringing her lunch from catering when her training sessions ran long, and they invariably invited her out for drinks at the end of the day.

Brienne might even have accepted, but it overlapped with the time when Jaime called her each night. He still texted her about a hundred times a day, and even though she could barely find time to answer more than once or twice Brienne sat in her trailer at the end of the day and read through them all while she waited for him to call. He sent her strange snippets from blogs she’d never heard of with names like _The Weekly Whisper_ and _The Imp Who Drinks_, gave her page-by-page commentary on whatever book he was reading, complained about Sandor and his physiotherapist Gilly, and found new and even more outlandish theories about his favourite age of ice and fire legends each day. _Wench_, he’d say cheerfully when she answered the phone. _Tell me about your day_.

He spent a few days filming in the Hayford Castle studios just north of King’s Landing and Brienne found she missed his constant stream of silly nonsense messages during the day. He still called her in the evenings, sounding flat and exhausted but still managing to make her laugh with stories of the cast and crew hunting for a Hayford Castle ghost he’d completely invented. _The Lady of the Leaves_, he said. _A white-haired crone with a lantern. Two of the grips swear they’ve seen her._

_Making a fool of myself_, was all he’d say about the film role his new agent had found for him, sounding uncharacteristically glum. 

Brienne managed to teach Roslin Frey enough to look vaguely convincing in front of a camera before filming started, earning her effusive praise from the director, Lysa Arryn. _Mad as a meataxe_, Jaime called her, and Brienne was tempted to agree with him after ten minutes in the woman’s company. Lysa asked her to stay on until the fight scenes had all been filmed, though, which was work Brienne sorely needed, so she stayed her judgement for now.

“Wait until you’ve walked in on her breastfeeding her son,” Jaime said that night when she told him.

Brienne frowned. “It’s not last century, Jaime. Women breastfeeding –”

“He’s _seven_.”

“Oh.”

“Mad as a meataxe,” Jaime said again.

“Do you have many more days filming?”

“I finish tomorrow, unless we go seriously long.”

“You never did tell me about the film.”

Jaime sighed. “I didn’t. Because it’s embarrassing, and humiliating, but I need the work, at least, I need to _be_ working.”

“You do,” Brienne agreed. “Rather than lounging about looking up cockatrice sightings and texting me about them. That last one was evidently just some poor chicken someone had plucked.”

He laughed. “It’s called _How To Lose A Knight In Ten Days_. I play the comic-yet-wise bartender who teaches the hero and heroine A Very Important Lesson About Love.” Brienne could hear the capitals in his sarcastic tone. “Two long scenes, and an awful lot where I say _what’ll it be_ and pretend to pour drinks.”

“Why would anyone want to lose a knight?” Brienne wondered. “Also, how do you lose a knight?”

“Down the back of the couch?” Jaime suggested. “I don’t know, wench. I tried to make sense of the script, something-something-bets-with-best-friends-something-something-fake-dating-something-something.”

“Oh, one of _those_,” Brienne said. “And let me guess, they fall in love with each other despite themselves but misunderstandings conspire to keep them apart until the last minute?”

“Probably,” Jaime said.

“I hate those.”

Jaime chuckled. “Hate’s a strong word to use for an entire genre, wench. And your film is a rom-com with sword fights. _When Duncan Met Rohanne_ is the definition of a rom-com. Seven Hells, _Volantis_ is a rom-com if you squint and look at it sideways.”

“I hate the ones that are unbelievable because the characters have nothing in common and would break up fifteen minutes after the film ends, or unbelievable because they’re clearly meant to be together and the film has to turn itself into a pretzel to keep them apart. At least there’s a historically accurate reason for the Knight of the Laughing Tree to be in disguise as a man, which is a realistic reason for the Dragon Knight to not realise he’s in love with her,” Brienne said. “And it’s not _my film_. Give me a sword fight any day.”

“Speaking of sword fighting, there’s a remastered version of _The Magnificent Seven _showing at the film festival next month. If you’re back in King’s Landing, we should go. It’s Arthur Dayne’s finest work, I always thought.” He deepened his voice. “_Our knees do not bend easily_.”

“I’ve never understood that story,” Brienne said. “I mean, the fights are great. But how is the Morningstar the hero?”

“He and the other Kingsguards are defending his king’s mistress and child.”

“From her _brother_,” Brienne said. “Who is not there to kill her or harm her in any way.”

“They don’t know that.”

“They could always have asked,” Brienne said tartly.

Jaime chuckled. “Wench, one day you should get into screen-writing, if only because I would pay good dragons to watch you eviscerate some of the people whose lines I’ve been forced to mouth over the years. Anyway, the Morningstar isn’t the hero, that’s the point. He’s _a_ hero, but the film is about the corrosive effect of blind loyalty to corrupt institutions. It’s a scathing critique of the myths of knighthood.”

“Now I see why you like it. It appeals to your inner cynic.”

“There’s nothing inner about my cynic,” Jaime said promptly. He yawned. “Sorry, wench. I had a five a.m. call.”

“You should get some sleep, then.”

“I will. Goodnight, wench.”

“Goodnight, Jaime.”

She was just about to go to bed herself when there was a knock on her trailer door.


	41. Jaime XX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connington laughs. Jaime does not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: references to workplace sexual harassment in this one as well as asshole men saying asshole things.

Brienne would have mocked him for it, but Jaime made Peck drive out to Hayford Castle to pick him up the next evening. _I’m just being sensible and not driving tired_, he told himself virtuously as he settled into the back seat. Besides, it was nearly time for him to call her, and his wench wouldn’t want him distracted by the phone when he was on the Kingsroad.

She hadn’t replied to any of his texts at all today, which was a little odd – usually Brienne managed one or two responses, no matter how busy she was, even if it was just a laughing emoji or an eyerolling one. Jaime watched the suburbs of King’s Landing appear on the horizon until the clock on his phone clicked over to the hour, then tapped the raven icon next to _Blue Brienne. _

“Hi,” Brienne’s voice said.

“Wench, I –”

“This is Brienne Tarth. I can’t take your call at the moment, but if you leave your name and number and a brief message, I’ll return your call when I can.”

“Wench. It’s me. I’ll … call back?”

Jaime cut the connection and frowned at his phone. It wasn’t the first time he’d got Brienne’s voicemail, but it was the first time she hadn’t answered when he called at their usual time. _Wench sorry if ur busy,_ he tapped out carefully. _Pls let me know when 2 call back._

He waited patiently for an extremely long time – nearly four minutes according to his phone – before the raven icon began to flap, meaning Brienne was typing a reply. It flapped long enough for her to be writing an essay, and then _Sorry. Lot on_. flashed up on his screen.

Jaime scowled, typed _Hot date?_ and pressed send before silencing his phone and shoving it into his pocket. It wasn’t like he didn’t have other things he could be doing besides waiting for Brienne to text or call him. If she called, _she_ could talk to voicemail, and see how _she_ liked it. 

He folded his arms and stared out the car window and resolutely ignored his phone all the way into the city, ignored it while Peck double-parked outside a Ghiscari restaurant and ran in to pick up Jaime’s order, ignored it while he tossed his bag beside his bed and sat on the couch to eat while he surfed channels trying to find something he could bear to watch. He had two beers, ignoring his phone, because he didn’t have to get up for an early call the next morning, and he watched _The Hunchback Of The Sept Of Baelor_, the original silent film and not the recent remake, of course, and when he finally checked his phone it was just to see if Tyrion had called or texted and not because he was waiting to hear from Brienne.

One message, time-stamped seconds after his last. _You are an insufferable arse_.

_I’m an arse? _he sent back. _U were the 1 2 busy to talk to me._

His phone vibrated rather than squawking, _Blue Brienne calling. _He considered not answering, but his thumb tapped the raven before he’d decided.

“Not everything is about you, Jaime,” Brienne said coldly.

“So was it a hot date?” he drawled.

She made a choking noise. “Tell me, were you only ever pretending to be my friend, or are you just so hateful you can be this cruel even to your friends?”

Jaime blinked. “What? Brienne?”

“Oh, just fuck off, either way,” she snarled, and Jaime found himself suddenly listening to a dial tone.

He called her straight back and got _Hi, this is Brienne Tarth, I can’t take your call at the moment_ so quickly she must have turned her phone off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t know what I’ve apparently done,” he said the second the beep sounded. “And I think that if you’ve decided to think I’m _hateful_ you at least could have the decency to tell me why.” He cut the connection and painstakingly typed the same message as a text, double checked it twice for typos, and pressed _send. _

Then he went to bed and stared at the ceiling for what felt like the entirety of a night longer than the Long Night itself. _Crone’s cunt, I’m a fool_. Brienne had been nice to him, that had been what had done it. Even when he’d still been the Kingslayer to her, she’d been strong and kind and brave on his behalf, and then he’d told her the truth and she’d believed him and she’d _seen_ him, or so he’d told himself. She’d seen who he was and she’d wanted to spend time with and laugh with and talk to the man she saw, that was the lie he’d made up.

But no. _Hateful_. _Cruel._ That was what Brienne thought of him. 

It was still dark outside when his phone squawked. Jaime picked it up from the bedside table and read _Did you know?_

_Know what? _he sent back.

_I need u to b honest wth me. Did u know?_

Whatever it was, it was bad, for his wench to be using abbreviations and making typos both in the one sentence. Very carefully, Jaime tapped out _I swear by the Seven I have no idea what is going on. May I never know the Mother’s mercy if I’m lying. May the Father jdge me justly if I’m lying. May the strangr take me now if I lying._

A long pause before the raven icon began to flap again. _Then y did u ask about my date?_

_U did have a datye?_

_No f corse I didn’t _she replied instantly.

_Wench I’m really lost. Pls tell me what wrong. Pls call me._

_I’m late for work. Later._

Jaime bit his lip. _Promise?_

_Yes._

Jaime let the phone drop to the coverlet. _Alright_. She would call later, she would apologise for misjudging him, he’d forgive her when she’d been appropriately contrite, and it would all be fine. That was how arguments went, he knew that much, even if his experience with really bad arguments was limited to …

To his father, and Cersei.

Well, maybe he’d forgive her straight away, if she had a reasonable explanation. He could be magnanimous. He wouldn’t make her beg, the way Cersei had always made _him_ grovel and plead. No, he’d listen to Brienne’s apology and immediately tell her he accepted it.

Jaime picked up his phone again and reread the most recent texts. _If she had a date, she probably had a bit to drink. That’s why the typos, she’s still a bit tipsy. That’s all. _

Three typos, and four abbreviations, from his wench who sometimes spelled out _television_ rather than texting _TV_.

_Tipsy_, he told himself, and went to take a shower. _People sometimes make typos, even Brienne, _he told himself while he made coffee and waited for his toast to brown. 

_ Did you know?_ she’d asked.

_Did I know _what_? _His stomach was upset, even though he’d only had the two beers last night. _What happened? What happened to my wench?_

He ate his toast in five quick bites, gulped his coffee, and texted Peck. _Bring car ASAP._

Rosby was further out from King’s Landing than Hayford Castle and the road wasn’t exactly the Kingsroad, but Peck made good time. Jaime checked his phone and fidgeted and checked his phone again. Sandor Clegane called, wondering where the fuck Jaime was. Tyrion called, suggesting lunch the next day.

Brienne didn’t call.

The production took a little while to find, because _Pretty in Platemail_ wasn’t the only film being made in the scenic village of Rosby that week. They were first directed to what turned out to be the last week’s shoot of _For A Few Dragons More_, Doran Martell’s attempt to cash in on the success of _A Fistful of Dragons_. Peck’s second attempt to get directions ended with them being waved away from a lane being used to shoot an outdoor scene for _The Sisterhood Of The Travelling Breeches._

Finally they found the field on the outskirts of the town that had been half-dressed as a historical tourney. Jaime got out of the car and Peck drove off to find somewhere to park beyond the trailers lining the road.

He could easily see Brienne’s fair hair on the other side of the set, head and shoulders above the people around her. She was patiently correcting the grip of a slim young woman who Jaime thought was probably Roslin Frey, although he didn’t really know the girl well enough to recognise her from behind. As much as he wanted to jog over the field to Brienne, Jaime had a bone-deep reluctance to ruin a shot that was bred partly from his years in the industry and partly from the thrashing six-year-old Jaime Lannister had gotten from his father for running onto a set when the cameras were rolling. He leaned against the fence and watched her, instead. She looked alright, at this distance anyway, and the knot that had been in Jaime’s stomach since breakfast eased a little. _She’s fine. She’ll laugh at me for driving out here in a tearing hurry just because she made a couple of typos._

The familiar chatter of a film set washed around him – the script supervisor yelling at a gradually increasing volume about a flag, someone bitching about an extra who’d jumped the queue at the craft services table, the best boy grip running past with a clipboard and a harried expression. Jaime recognised a few faces from different productions over the years, including Rod Connington and Hyle Hunt, who he’d last seen in Winterfell.

“…was priceless,” Connington was saying. Hyle Hunt looked at his feet, but the two other men with them laughed. “I mean, you’d think she’d have fucking sussed it out. She can’t think any man would actually _want_ her.”

“Stupid as she is ugly,” one of the others said. _Harry something._

“Desperate, more like.” That was … Mike Mullendork? He elbowed Hunt. “You earned that money, mate. I don’t think I could have done it, even for two hundred dragons. It would take all the beer that Manderlys can make to give me beer goggles thick enough to find that cow attractive.”

Connington guffawed. “How long did you need to brush your teeth for, after, Hyle?”

Jaime’s lips thinned and his good hand clenched into a fist. _Little shits_. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard about assholes making sport of some poor woman vulnerable enough to flattery to be taken in by them – hells, his own cousin Lancel had spent an entire summer _building character_ by working roadkill pickup for the Lannisport local council when Uncle Kevan found out he’d been part of a similar bet. _Lancel was sixteen, though, and these idiots are supposedly adults._ He wondered what woman they’d humiliated. _Some plump spinster with glasses working her arse off in craft services to keep them fed and watered, probably. I hope she spits in their coffees for the rest of the –_

“I mean, Brienne the Beast,” Connington said, shaking his head. “Surely she owns a mirror.”

Jaime felt himself turn strangely cold – not even angry, not in a way he recognised as anger, just an icy stillness that made everything very far away and quiet, as if he were fainting. He’d always known he had a temper, but for the first time he discovered in himself the capacity for his father’s queer, cold rage.

He vaulted over the fence and closed the distance to the four men. “Did I hear you say something about Brienne Tarth?” Oddly enough, he could hear that his voice was quite calm, even friendly.

“You’re too late to get in on the action,” Mullendork said. “Hyle already took the pot.”

“Paid off on a quick buss and a squeeze. None of us had the heart to insist he got his tongue in her mouth. I’ve seen bears with bigger tits and I’d wager less hair on their arse, too.” Connington laughed.

Jaime did not. “What a charming and gentlemanly remark.”

Connington slapped Mullendork on the shoulder. “Can you imagine, that freak in the nude –”

Jaime punched Connington in the mouth so hard the other man went reeling backward and fell. Someone shouted, people were running – Jaime ignored them all. He took a long step forward and stood over Connington, sprawled groggy on the grass. “You are speaking of a colleague, ser. Call her by name. Call her Brienne.”

Connington wiped his hand across his mouth and spat blood to the side. “Brienne. Brienne the Beauty.”

Jaime put his foot on Connington’s chest with just enough weight to warn the man that more could follow. “Brienne Tarth.”

And then strong arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning his arms, and he was lifted off his feet and away from Connington. “Jaime, Jaime, what are you _doing_?” Brienne said in his ear.

She had him in a bear-hug and she was far too strong for him to do anything but give in. “Hello, wench,” he said, getting a grip on his temper with great effort.

Brienne set him on his feet but kept hold of him. “Have you lost your mind?”

“If anyone got a picture of that, I’ll claim so,” Jaime said. “You can let go of me, Brienne, I’m not about to kill anyone on a film set. I’ve already ticked that item off my bucket list.” Her grip loosened enough for him to turn around to face her.

Brienne took his left hand in both hers and examined it. “You could have hurt your hand. What would you do if you broke your other hand?”

“It would have been worth it.” And what would he say if she asked him why? Did she know? He thought back to her texts. _Of course she knows._

“I can fight my own battles, Jaime,” Brienne said, frowning at him, confirming it.

“I don’t like people saying mean things about my friends,” Jaime told her, and her brilliant blue eyes filled with tears. “Wench. Don’t let me make you cry.” 

“You idiot,” she said under her breath.

“What in the Seven Hells is going on here?” roared a familiar and unwelcome voice. _Randyll fucking Tarly. _“Tarth? Why aren’t you doing your job?”

“I –” Brienne started, flushing.

“Let me,” Jaime said softly, and winked at her before he stepped around her to face Tarly. “Randyll. Nice to see you again. Shame it’s not under better circumstances. I’m here on behalf of Lannister and Stokeworth –” Tyrion would cover for him, although he’d give Jaime hell later. “Investigating on behalf of a client with claims of sexual harassment and a hostile working environment. And it appears I’ve found both.” He wasn’t entire sure what any of those terms meant in a legal context, but they’d always been effective on _Bedding and the City _when Larra Blackmont’s character used them and if there was one thing Jaime’s career had taught him to do, it was to deliver lines he didn’t understand with utter conviction.

Tarly snorted. “If you think I’m going to let some lawyers run around this set making up nonsense about girls who should know better complaining when they got what they were asking for –”

“Dad!” a very young man behind him hissed. _No, not even a young man – a boy, no more than sixteen_.

“Dickon, let me handle it!” Tarly snapped.

“I advise you listen to your son before you talk yourself into a six-figure settlement,” Jaime said. “For the first complainant. Who knows how many others will come out of the woodwork when they realise they have options?” As much as he was bluffing, Jaime had done enough live theatre to be aware of his audience and their reaction, and he saw a ripple in the crowd now surrounding them. He raised his voice. “Lannister and Stokeworth, easy to find with 3ER, no win no cost, sexual harassment and _hostile work environment_ cases a speciality.” Gods, Tyrion really was going to kill him, once he’d stopped counting the dragons he was going to make off the back of what was likely three decades of complaints by women who’d worked with Randyll Tarly.

“Jaime,” Brienne said faintly. Jaime found her hand and squeezed it.

“Get off my set before I have you arrested!” Tarly roared at him. 

“Are you denying me access to my client’s work environment?” Jaime countered with his best charming smile. He could see phones out, recording, in the increasing crowd of crew around them.

“If your client is that bitch –” Tarly stabbed his finger at Brienne. “I’ll tell you what I told her. She should have known better and she deserved what she got. And if she can’t behave the way a decent professional woman should behave, she can get the hells off my set.”

“Is that a threat to terminate the employment of a person on the basis of making a protected complaint?” Jaime asked promptly. He had no idea what a protected complaint was, but it had been on the episode of _Bedding and the City_ when Arianne Martell’s character had dated a lawyer and he was betting that Randyll Tarly didn’t know what it was either. 

“Dad!” Dickon Tarly hissed at his puce-faced father.

“Would someone please explain what’s happening on my set?” a woman said, and Jaime turned to see mad Lysa Arryn approaching in a terrifying swirl of paisley scarves.

“Wench, do you think you could arrange to faint right about now?” Jaime asked in an undertone.

“No,” Brienne said.

“Pity.” He let got of her hand, strode forward, and kissed Lysa on each cheek. “What a pleasure to see you again, Lysa.”

“Oh, Jaime, you _rogue_,” she tittered. “You know I’m spoken for.”

“You break my heart,” Jaime lied sincerely. “Lysa, I’m sorry to have to tell you that some of your crew have been behaving very badly. Don’t worry, though, I and my brother will make sure it’s all taken care of.”

She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. “Your brother? Wasn’t he involved in my brother-in-law’s murder?”

“No,” Jaime assured her. _The Seven only know how she got that in her head._ “That was my cousin, once removed.” _And my son, unfortunately not enough removed, but let’s not go there, shall we?_ He lowered his voice. “Lysa. I know you’ll understand.” Everyone knew the stories about her marriage. “A woman was badly treated. I don’t want it to become an issue for your film, but if Randyll isn’t put on a leash, it might be …”

“_Men_,” Lysa said with venom. “Not you, of course, Jaime.” The reassurance carried no conviction. “I can’t afford any delays, you know. And certainly no lawsuits.”

“I can make sure of that,” Jaime lied, reasonably certain that Tyrion was about to get a dozen new clients whose assorted suits could sink _Pretty in Platemail_ for good. “But it would be good if you could calm the situation down …”

“Of course, yes.” She patted his arm, and stepped back. “Alright, everyone, back to work. Randyll, a word, please?”

Jaime seized Brienne’s hand and tugged her towards the fence. “Come on, wench. Show me your trailer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, don’t hit people! No matter how Connington they are! Representation is not endorsement!


	42. Brienne XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the punch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: references to workplace sexual harassment.

Brienne shut and latched the door of her trailer behind them, and turned to open the refrigerator.

“I don’t need a drink, wench,” Jaime said.

She took a pack of frozen peas from the freezer. “I’m not getting you a drink. Sit down.” She pointed at the couch, and when he obediently sat, she perched beside him, took his left hand in hers and pressed the pack of peas to it. “You really shouldn’t take such risks.”

Jaime gave her a sweet, uncomplicated smile. “You worry about me.”

“You are worrying,” Brienne said repressively. “What are you doing here?”

“I had the feeling something was wrong.” He let his head rest back on the couch. “I’m sorry I was an insufferable arse.”

“You weren’t,” Brienne said quickly. “I was … unreasonable.”

“You were upset,” Jaime said, as if her immediate leap to the worst of all possible conclusions was perfectly understandable. “And I was a bad friend.”

Brienne turned the pack of peas to press the other side against his knuckles. “You weren’t.”

“I wanted to talk to you, I looked forward to talking to you, and I got in a snit.”

“I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” And how she could have done that was a question she couldn’t answer. _Don’t I know him? Hasn’t he been exactly who he seems, all this time? And yet I thought the worst of him …_

“Wench.” Jaime put his maimed right hand over hers. “You had an utterly shit day. Please stop apologising to me when I’m trying to apologise to you, because I’m terrible at apologies so you’re at an unfair advantage.”

Despite everything, he made her smile. “Well. It was just … they’d been sniggering about it all day, and … Rod kept making, you know, kissing noises every time he was anywhere near me, and … when you called I … and then you asked about my date and … ” She shrugged. “That’s what they kept saying, Mark and Harry and the others. _Another hot date tonight, Butch?_” Jaime made a low, dangerous noise in his throat, almost a growl. “I mean, I knew it wasn’t a date,” Brienne assured him quickly. “It’s not like … I just thought maybe they were nice. Like friends. So when Hyle said they were having beers in his trailer … I thought it was a real invitation.” She shrugged. “And he said the others must have gone to get more beer, and then he just sort of … lunged at me, and they all jumped out of the bedroom.” Her eyes burned, and she blinked hard. _Good one, Hyle! You’re a fucking braver man than me, getting your mouth near that face. You fucking earned every single stag, you mad bastard!_ “So I just left. I mean, that’s all that happened. It wasn’t anything.”

“It seems like it was sort of something.” Jaime took the melting bag of frozen peas from her hand and set it on the floor, and then took her hand in both his. 

“They just kept going on about it, and I …” Brienne knew that if she looked at his face she’d see pity in his expression, pity for the big ugly girl who’d only get kissed on a bet, so she kept her eyes on their linked hands. “I didn’t actually think any of them wanted to date me,” she told him again, needing him to know that even if she was a hulking great giant with a face that looked like it had been put together at random out of whatever was left over, she wasn’t stupid or pathetic enough not to know it.

Jaime’s thumb slid across the back of her hand. Something about the slow, steady pressure made her heart pound and her breath catch in her chest. “Brienne …”

There was a rap at the trailer door. “Miss Tarth?” Samwell Tarly called. “Miss Tarth? I brought the first aid kit for Mr Lannister?”

“Tell him to fuck off,” Jaime said very softly, his gaze steady on hers.

“He’s the set medic, he needs to have a look at your hand.” Her voice, thank the Warrior, didn’t shake.

“My hand’s fine.”

“For legal and insurance reasons,” Brienne pointed out. She raised her voice. “Come in, Sam.”

Samwell Tarly was as far from his muscular, weather-beaten father or his skinny little brother as it was possible to be. He was what Brienne charitably thought of as _plump_, so plump he had to squeeze his way through the trailer door, his pink face round as the moon beneath his dark hair. He held up the first aid kit and gave Brienne a timid smile. “Um.”

She slipped her hands free from Jaime’s and stood up to make room for him. “I don’t think he broke any bones in his hand.”

“Of course I didn’t, wench, I’ve known how to throw a punch since I was ten,” Jaime drawled.

Sam hunched down beside him. “I’m just. Um. Going to have a look? I’m sorry, I would have been here sooner, but Dad said to look at Rod first.” He held out one plump, sweaty hand. “Ser? If you don’t mind?” With a sigh, Jaime held out his left hand. Sam bent over it, gently probing. “I’d need an X-ray to confirm, but I think Miss Tarth is right, nothing broken. But you should get the X-ray. Make a fist for me, if you don’t mind? Good. That’s good. Um. I’ll just put some disinfectant on these abrasions.” He fumbled in the kit.

“Are a you a maester?” Jaime asked.

Sam shook his head, producing a white tube. “No. I mean, I went to Oldtown University and I forged the link, but Dad says that no-one would go to a maester who looks like he’s … who looks like me.”

“Your dad is a cunt, you know,” Jaime said bluntly.

“Jaime,” Brienne said warningly.

Sam flushed red. “I know. I’m sorry. Dickon … sometimes he listens to Dickon. But there’s not much I can do to … he doesn’t much listen to me.” Brienne watched carefully as Sam spread a white ointment over Jaime’s knuckles where he’d split the skin, but the young man’s touch was gentle and sure.

“I meant more that you shouldn’t listen to his obviously stupid opinions,” Jaime said. “My father is also a cold-rolled cunt, and my life improved immeasurably when I stopped giving a shit what he thought about me, as did my brother’s. I recommend it.”

“I tried to save up for a residency,” Sam confessed. “I’m not very good at saving money, it turns out.” He took a pack of band-aids out of the kit. “I’m going to cover these, even though they’re probably alright, just to be careful. And you should see your regular physician.”

“They’re just skinned knuckles,” Jaime said with amusement.

“You can’t be too careful,” Sam said sternly, applying the band-aids.

“Let him do his job, Jaime,” Brienne said.

“And you, um, Miss Tarth? Are you, um. Alright?”

Brienne blinked at him. “Yes, I wasn’t anywhere near the fight.”

Jaime chuckled. “You were sort of in the vicinity, wench, when you threw me over your shoulder and carried me to safety.”

“Jaime!” Brienne said. “I did _not_ throw you over my shoulder.” She _had_ lifted him bodily off his feet, which was hardly a womanly thing to do, but she’d had to. He’d been looking down at Connington as if he was genuinely weighing up whether or not to kill him.

“No, I …” Sam was beet-red and couldn’t meet Brienne’s gaze, instead staring fixedly just past her shoulder. “I heard. What they said. About. Um.” He took a deep breath, and then gabbled, “If you’ve been indecently assaulted there is help available confidentially and anonymously I have some brochures.”

Brienne felt her cheeks burn. _I’m probably the same colour as he is. Does everybody know?_ Yes, of course, everybody knew. They’d have all been boasting about what a great joke it was. “I’m fine,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t –”

“Miss Tarth will be consulting a maester specialising in the complex post-traumatic syndrome that can result from being repeatedly sexually harassed in a hostile working environment,” Jaime drawled. “Be sure and let your father know. And by all means, leave the brochures.”

“I don’t have complex anything,” Brienne said after Samwell, still blushing profusely, squeezed himself back out of the door. “How did you even come up with all that?”

“I told you, wench, I might not be a maester but I played one on _Frey’s Anatomy_.”

“A secretly evil one,” Brienne pointed out.

“Yes, but he was good at his job,” Jaime countered with a grin.

“And all the legal stuff?” She sat down next to him again. “Settlements, and complaints, and that?”

“Must have picked it up from Tyrion,” Jaime said easily, looking a bit embarrassed about it. “Which reminds me.” He dug his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen. “Having just assaulted someone in full view of an entire film crew, I should probably talk to my lawyer.” 

“I should give you some privacy.”

Jaime grabbed her hand before she could stand. “It’s fine.” He raised the phone to his ear. “Bronn. I need to talk to my brother. No, I can’t – thanks. Tyrion? I just punched a guy in the face. Yes, unfortunately. Of course I had a good reason! No, he – no, he wasn’t. No. No. Well, he was just standing there, but – Connington. Red – no, Rod – yeah. Probably, it is a film set. Thanks. Oh, and Tyrion? If anyone asks, you’re representing Brienne Tarth in a potential sexual harassment suit. And I work for you.” He held the phone away from his ear for a moment, and Brienne could hear Tyrion Lannister’s voice, tinny over the connection but clearly raised to a shout. “Thanks Tyrion,” he said loudly, and ended the call.

“How much trouble are you going to be in?” Brienne asked. _Assault occasioning actual bodily harm …_ “You don’t have a record, do you?” Jaime smiled, and shook his head. “So … a plea bargain would probably see you get probation and –”

“Brienne.” Jaime let the phone drop onto the couch and put his good left hand with his right, over hers. “I promise you, I’m not going to be in trouble. This is ninety percent of Tyrion’s job, making sure that people like me escape the consequences of their actions.”

Brienne frowned. “I thought he was a contract lawyer.”

“He’s an entertainment lawyer, contracts are probably the smallest part of his work. Bronn’s the muscle, and Varys is the spider in the shadows.” Jaime squeezed her fingers. “I guarantee you, everybody will develop convenient amnesia about what they saw by the end of the day. End of the week, at the most.”

“And Connington?”

His smile was sharp as a knife. “Connington most of all.”


	43. Tyrion III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion wants to work. Bronn wants to talk.

Bronn Stokeworth put his feet up on Tyrion’s desk. “One of us is going to have to tell him.”

“Tell whom what?” Tyrion deleted a sentence, moved another. _Clause 19. In the event of …_

“Your brother. One of us is going to have to tell him.” Bronn took out a toothpick and began to pick his teeth. “Using small words.”

“Can you not?” Tyrion asked with a pained glance. “I’m trying to work.”

“Dental hygiene is important,” Bronn said. “Lollys says –”

“I liked you better when you were bedding escorts, not dental hygienists.” 

“I’m trying to improve myself,” Bronn said blithely. “Also, she has tits like great big –”

“Bronn.” Tyrion saved and closed the document, just in case the conversation was going to make him bang his head on the keyboard repeatedly. “If you came in here purely for the purpose of telling me about your girlfriend’s tits, may I assure you in the strongest possible terms, I do not care.”

“I came in here because I was bored.”

“I’m _working_. You, also, could be _working_.”

“Then I’d still be bored,” Bronn pointed out. “And your brother would still be a twat.”

Tyrion closed his eyes. “What will it take for you to go away?”

“A raise?”

“I put your name on the door!”

“Can’t eat a nameplate.”

“Bronn, you have been squatting in my spare room, eating my food, drinking my liquor, and occasionally trying to hit on my girlfriend, for _two years_. If you’ve dipped into your own wallet for as much as a sandwich in the past month, I will _eat_ that wallet. And your nameplate.”

“So no raise?”

Tyrion put his head in his hands. “Bronn. I’m begging you.”

“I just spent two days cleaning up your brother’s mess. Varys the same.”

“And you are both paid, by me, to do exactly that sort of thing.”

“That’s not the point.”

Tyrion raised his head. “There’s a point? Then for the love of the Seven, get to it.”

“He drove from King’s Landing to Rosby to punch a man in the face for upsetting Brienne Tarth.”

“I’m relatively certain he was telling the truth when he said he had no plans to assault the gentleman in question.”

Bronn snorted. “If that cunt’s a gentleman, I’m the Queen of Meereen.”

“It’s a figure of speech!”

“The point I’m trying to make is, pretty boy slugged a man for calling his girl a name.”

“He was bragging about arranging for her to be indecently assaulted, I would have punched him. Well, asked you to punch him.”

Bronn cast a gaze at the ceiling. “Smith give me strength. I used to think that he got the looks and you got the brains, but I’m beginning to think that neither of you got much in the way of seeing the bleeding obvious. He admitted he wants to fuck her. He went full Wun-Wun on a guy over her. And while I don’t spend as much time with him as you do, I must have heard her name a hundred times since he got back to King’s Landing from the north. What does that add up to?” He gave Tyrion a wicked grin. “Your big blond idiot brother has the hots for his big blonde idiot best friend. And since he can’t seem to tell, one of us is going to have to fill him in, before I fucking lose my mind with _Brienne this_ and _Brienne that_.” His grin sharpened. “I vote you. He won’t take a swing at _you_.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Jaime … well, there’s things about Jaime that you don’t know.”

“He’s gay?”

“He’s … complicated.”

“That’s a Ravengram relationship status, not an explanation.” Bronn tilted his chair back to an alarming degree. “If you’re tiptoeing around that business with your cousin, it’s not as much of a secret as you might think. Is he still fucking her?”

_Seven Hells, I hope not_. But no, Tyrion was sure he’d be able to tell. Cersei wasn’t even in King’s Landing … and he knew what Jaime was like when he’d been with her, relieved and guilty both at once when Cersei let him bed her and grimly miserable when she was in one of her moods. Jaime had been frustrated, and at times glum, since he’d gotten back from Moat Cailin, but there was none of the constant edge of tension that Cersei created in him. Despite his injury, in fact, Jaime had seemed more relaxed than he had for years. “I’m pretty sure that’s over, for good.”

“So?” Bronn shrugged. “What’s the problem?”

“Jaime’s sure she’s not interested in bedding him,” Tyrion pointed out. “And she’s pretty much the only good friend he’s ever had in his adult life. I’m fairly sure that if you, or I, sit him down and make him self-conscious about it, he’ll manage to comprehensively fuck it up.”

“I know what we should do, then.” Bronn let his chair drop back to level with a _thump_. “Get them drunk, steal their clothes, and lock them in –”

“_No_, Bronn.”

“Just get them drunk, then.”

“There is not enough alcohol in the world to get my chivalrous brother to make a move on an unwilling woman.”

“Do you really think she’s unwilling?” Bronn scoffed. “What woman would turn Jaime fookin’ Lannister down?”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “A lesbian?”

“Do you think she is?”

Tyrion sighed. “I don’t have the faintest idea about Brienne Tarth’s sex life. I don’t have the faintest interest in Brienne Tarth’s sex life. And the only interest I have in my brother’s sex life is to be relieved he’s finally stopped bedding the most vicious bitch to ever draw breath. Leave them alone, Bronn. They’re both adults.” He punched keys to bring the contract back up. “And leave _me_ alone to finish this, or I swear by each and every one of the Seven I will arrange for a Tyroshi band to practice underneath your window all night, every night, for the next week.”

Bronn laughed, and stood up. “You’re an evil bastard.”

“So I’m told.” _Clause 19_. _In the event of earthquake, tsunami, or act of dragon, no penalty for cancellation shall be owed or paid by either party. _Why all Westerosi contracts had to include indemnification for _acts of dragon_ none of Tyrion’s legal maesters had been able to explain to him, but it had to be there, or the contract was unenforceable. _Clause 20. This contract shall be binding and enforceable on all signatories until the stated end date or until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east or until the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. _“Close the door on your way out.”


	44. Brienne XVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime wants to be a knight in shining armour. Brienne doesn't want to be a damsel in distress.

Brienne didn’t like to think of herself as naïve, but when much to her surprise Jaime was proved right and the fracas on set quietly disappeared as if it had never happened, she had to admit that perhaps she was a little innocent in the ways of the world, at least, in the ways of the world of the rich and famous.

“It’s corruption,” she objected to Jaime, over the Lysene soup he’d brought with him when he turned up at her trailer that evening.

“No public officials were bribed,” Jaime said easily. “No, wench, you need to put more lemon in. It’s no good without enough lemon.”

“Perversion of the course of justice, then.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you _want_ me to go to jail?”

“Of course not!” she said indignantly. “It’s just … it’s not right. The law is supposed to be fair. It’s the only thing in life that is _always_ fair.”

“Well – here, you need more pepper sauce. This is from Tolos.” He upended the bottle over her soup, ignoring her half-voiced protest. “There. Anyway, _fair_ would be Connington and Hyle Cunt and Mullendork and the rest being black-balled from the industry for what they did to you, and Randick Tarly being sued into oblivion by every woman who ever worked on a set with him, and Lysa Arryn’s idiotic film going down under the weight of it all. But that would put a lot of people out of work, which wouldn’t be fair to _them_. And Connington’s had his medical expenses taken care of.” He shrugged. “It’s not like I hit him that hard. You’ve had worse in tourneys.”

Brienne felt herself flush, and managed not to touch her crooked nose. “But it’s not the point. It’s about … you can’t just go around hitting people. It’s about the King’s Peace.”

He looked at her, his usual half-smile gone. “Should I hand myself in to the Gold Cloaks?”

She shook her head. “I don’t mean –”

“Because I will,” he said quite seriously. “If you think that’s what I should do.”

Brienne put her hand over his. “No. It’s not. I just …” She shrugged. “There were guys, who took … who weren’t … entirely honest. When I was in the Gold Cloaks.” She was holding his hand, somehow. She dropped her gaze from his and let go, but Jaime held on. “And they were … awful. Awful people. And I swore I wouldn’t ever, you know. Look away, or forget to record something, or …”

“Or be like them,” Jaime said softly.

Brienne nodded. “Or be like them.”

“And would you have arrested me, if you’d been in uniform when I hit Cuntingdon?”

_Would I? _She’d broken up more than one brawl in her time in King’s Landing. Not all of them had ended with her hauling someone off to the station. “I certainly would have found out what happened.”

His thumb stroked hers. “And if what happened was that a friend heard someone say something awful about his friend?”

Brienne couldn’t catch her breath. Every nerve in her body seemed concentrated in the square inch of skin on her hand that Jaime’s thumb moved over, and over, and over again. “I would have asked if someone wanted to press charges.” Her mouth was dry and her voice less certain than she would have liked.

“Cuntingdon had every opportunity to call the Gold Cloaks,” Jaime said. “So did everyone else.”

Brienne nodded. “That’s true.” She had to take her hand back from him before he realised exactly what effect he was having on her, she _had_ to. _Move, Brienne. Lean back. Pull your fingers free. _Her body utterly refused to obey.

“It’s not like he’d already made a complaint before Bronn talked to him.” Jaime’s voice was very soft. “I think that’s what lawyers call consciousness of guilt. On his part.”

“Maybe,” she whispered.

“So I’m not the worst person in Westeros for not going to jail for hitting him?”

Startled, she met his gaze. His eyes were very dark in the thin fluorescent light of the trailer. “You couldn’t be,” she said. “You could never be.”

Jaime smiled. “I’m glad to know.”

He released her hand and Brienne felt – _relieved, you feel relieved_, she told herself. She cleared her throat and picked up her spoon, stirring her soup. “So. Um. I haven’t had Lysene food before.”

“Never compares to the original, but the _Tears of Lys_ is run by actual Lyseni, it’s the closest I’ve found.” He scooped up noodles and beef and soup, gave her a grin, and ate.

Brienne did the same. It was spicy, although she could still taste the beef and the lemon and –

And her mouth was on fire. She swallowed quickly, which did nothing to ease the blaze on her tongue but spread it to her throat. She could feel sweat springing out on her face and gasped for breath. That only filled her lungs with air as hot as the inferno in her mouth and throat.

“Brienne?”

_I’m fine_, she tried to say, but all that came out was a choking cough. Frantically, she grabbed for her water glass and guzzled, not hearing Jaime say _No, wench don’t_ until she’d taken several long swallows – and the fire had spread to her stomach. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Jaime scrambled to his feet and yanked open the mini-fridge in her trailer’s kitchenette. “Here.” He thrust the carton of milk she kept for her tea into her hand. “Drink that.” When Brienne hesitated, he took her wrist and raised her hand towards her face. “It will help, I promise.” It did, from the first mouthful. Brienne drained the carton. Jaime fumbled through her cabinets and drawers and came back with a handful of sugar packs Brienne had pocketed from craft services. “These help, too,” he said, offering them.

“I think I’m alright,” Brienne said. She mopped at her face with her sleeve, knowing she was probably the approximate colour of a tomato.

“I’m sorry, wench,” Jaime said. “You like Dornish food, I thought you’d like this.”

“Dornish food is hot,” Brienne said. “This …” She poked the carton of soup in front of her with one finger. “This is dragonfire.”

“Well, it does get three dragons on the menu,” Jaime said ruefully. “I wasn’t actually trying to poison you, wench. Despite appearances.” He reached out to swipe a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “And now I’ve deprived you of dinner.”

“I’m fine,” Brienne said quickly. “I had a big lunch.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Jaime was on his feet, pulling Brienne up with him. “Dinner is the most important meal of the day.” 

“I think you mean breakfast,” Brienne protested as Jaime tugged her to the door and out of it. “Jaime …”

“Breakfast, dinner, the only difference is the time of day,” Jaime said airily. He drew her hand through his arm and closed his fingers around hers.

“I’m reasonably sure that’s nonsense,” Brienne said, but they were crossing the street and turning the corner. “Where are we going?”

“_The Stinking Goose, _a pub near my hotel.”

“Your hotel? Are you shooting here?”

“No, I’m just visiting for a few days.” He gave her a sideways grin. “It’s very scenic, after all.”

“But your training, your physio – you’ll miss your appointments –” Brienne tried to stop, but Jaime tugged her onwards.

“I’ll make others. Here we are. I recommend the capon, but they do an excellent steak as well.” He opened the door for her and ushered her inside and before she knew what was happening Brienne was seated across from him at one of the long tables, menu in her hands.

She looked around. _The Stinking Goose_ had been fitted out with period-appropriate décor, no doubt in part for the tourists and in part in the hope a film-crew would bolster the owner’s income by using it as an interior set. All the tables were large enough to seat at least ten people, and there were benches, rather than chairs. Lighting came from hanging candle-lanterns, and Brienne made a mental note to be careful of them when they left – she was easily tall enough to set her hair on fire if she wasn’t. There were shields and crossed swords on the wall, which was _not_ accurate, not for a public house rather than a castle hall, and the floor was plain wood with no rushes, but all in all, the proprietor had done a decent job.

“Do you want a drink?” Jaime asked.

“Just water,” Brienne said. “And I think I will have the steak.” She put the menu down. “Jaime. You must have been to Rosby before. And it’s pretty, but it’s not exactly … I mean, what are you doing here?”

Jaime’s gaze stayed on his menu. “I’ll have the venison, I think.”

“Jaime?”

He glanced at her, and shrugged a little. “Just here to remind Randick Tarly and the rest of them that you have excellent legal representation keeping an eye on you.”

She frowned. “You’re keeping an _eye_ on me? Jaime, I can take care of myself.”

“Well, I know that very well, wench, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make life a little easier for you from time to time.”

“I don’t need you to make life easier for me, either,” Brienne said. “And you might bear in mind that the last time you were here you made things considerably more complicated for _everyone_ by acting like some kind of Black Ear or Stone Crow.”

His mouth tightened. “Fine. Message received and understood. I’ll go home first thing tomorrow.”

“Good.”

They gave their orders to the waitress and sat in silence, waiting for the food. Jaime fiddled with his cutlery, gaze downcast, lips in a hard line. _Gods be good, he even sulks attractively._ Brienne sighed. “Jaime, I _was_ pleased to see you.”

He looked up, almost smiling, and then Brienne saw him remember he was cross with her. The half-smile vanished. “You turn out to have a funny way of showing it, telling me to go away.”

“Do you want me to apologise?” Brienne felt her own temper rising. “For not being delighted that you got in a brawl at my work?”

“It wasn’t a brawl,” Jaime bit out. “Trust me, wench, I’ve been in enough brawls to know.”

“A fight, then.” She tried to hold on to her patience. “I mean, what were you planning to do? Hang around the set threatening to punch anyone else whose looks you don’t like?”

“I was _trying_ to be a good friend,” Jaime muttered at his plate.

“No, you were trying –” _Very trying, you complete child. _“You were trying to be my knight in shining armour. But I don’t need one.”

“I get it, I get it.” He shot a stormy green glare at her. “I fucked it up. I’m a nuisance to you. You want me to go away. Fine, I will.”

“I never said any of those things,” Brienne snapped.

“You thought them, though,” Jaime snapped back. 

“Oh, you’ve got a glass candle hidden in your pocket? I know what I think, thank you very much, and you clearly have no idea. I’m trying to _tell_ you what I think, using my _words_.” She leaned forward, ticking her points off her fingers as she made them. “One. I was pleased to see you, because I like you and I like spending time with you, because we’re friends. Two. I don’t need you to punch people on my behalf, because if someone needs punching, I’m quite capable of taking care of it myself. Three. I don’t _want_ you punching people at my job. Four. I also don’t need you hovering around me looking after me. And five, I don’t want to be having this stupid fight with you over it.”

Jaime leaned forward as well, eyes blazing like wildfire. “One. You were upset and hurt and you didn’t tell me, which is not exactly what a real friend would do. Two. Those assholes were _laughing_ about it, and I should have punched all of them, and a lot harder than I did. Three. You could try and be a little bit grateful that I made sure that neither they, not anyone else, will mess with you again. Four. You clearly _do_ need someone looking after you, after what happened. And five, if you want to stop having _this stupid fight_ you could always admit that you’re wrong.”

“_I’m_ wrong? _You’re_ wrong!”

“No, you are!”

“Venison and a steak, medium rare,” said the waitress from behind Brienne.

Jaime glanced up at her. “Tell her she’s wrong,” he instructed.

“That’s not included in the service charge,” the waitress said, setting the plates down between them and making a rapid escape.

Brienne yanked her plate towards her, hard enough to knock her cutlery onto the floor. “I would have told you. If you hadn’t made that crack about me having a date.”

“Why didn’t you answer your phone, then?” Jaime demanded.

“Because I was crying!” Brienne burst out. “Because I was crying, Jaime, and I didn’t want you to think I was such a snivelling idiot as to cry over something so stupid!” And Seven Hells, she was going to start crying again right here in the _Stinking Goose_ and everybody in the room had turned to stare at her outburst and she was surely bright red and blotchy and making a giant, clumsy, spectacle of herself … “I’m not hungry anymore,” she said, shoved back from the table hard enough to rock it, and bolted out of the pub.


	45. Jaime XXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why should Jaime apologise, when he's not the one who is wrong?

_Stupid, stubborn wench …_

Sandor Clegane’s sword hit Jaime’s, twisted – Jaime found himself with an empty hand.

“If you’re not going to concentrate, you might as well not bother coming,” Sandor growled.

“I’m concentrating,” Jaime said.

“You fucking aren’t,” Sandor said. He went to pick up Jaime’s tourney sword and tossed it to him. “You’re still shit, but you’re not this shit.”

“_I’m concentrating,_” Jaime snarled. He raised his sword. “Guard yourself.”

He lasted longer this time – a whole thirty seconds longer. With a snort of disgust, Sandor retrieved Jaime’s blade again. This time he shoved both swords into the rack. “Fuck off.”

“I have another hour,” Jaime protested.

“You’re wasting my time, you’re wasting _your_ time, if we were really fighting I’d have killed you twelve times already and it’s only half-nine. Fuck off, and don’t come back until you’re ready to work.”

Instead of leaving, Jaime ostentatiously spent the rest of the hour hitting the heavy bag as hard as he could, using the rowing machine with his right wrist hooked under the handle he couldn’t properly grip, and racking weights on the machines up until his muscles fluttered and quivered with the effort of lifting them.

Sandor ignored him, except for the occasional sneer.

It was Brienne’s fault. Jaime showered and dressed, _did not_ check his phone, waved Peck off with the car and strode through the streets. He didn’t really think about where he was going until he found himself outside the steel and glass skyscraper on Visenya’s Hill that housed Tyrion’s office.

He was well enough trained not to open Tyrion’s closed door or even knock, but flung himself down on one of the couches in the waiting room and did not, _did not_, check his phone. He had no doubt that Varys, at least, knew he was there, and would let Tyrion know when his little brother had finished whatever mysterious lawyerly pursuit he was busy with. Jaime occupied himself with the magazines on the coffee table, which for once didn’t have pictures of Jaime Kingslayer Lannister doing something disreputable on their covers. Robb Stark was this week’s cover-boy, although of course Ned’s son wasn’t disgracing himself – but he was apparently dating Jeyne Westerling. From the dewy-eyed gazes the two were giving each other in every photo, they were either genuinely in love or better actors than Jaime would have credited. _Well, good for them_. In his experience love was a rare commodity. He’d loved Cersei, enough to content himself on the scraps of intimacy she let him have, enough to stay faithful to her despite the frequent temptations to stray – he was in love, not dead, and there were plenty of beautiful women eager to make him a notch on their headboard. From the way Jeyne Westerling looked at Robb Stark, the boy wouldn’t have to content himself with the occasional surreptitious and illicit fuck. _No. No doubt they’ll be this generation’s Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully, still being snapped with their tongues in each other’s mouths after two decades and five children. _

Unbidden, his thoughts went to Brienne Tarth. _Stupid stubborn wench_. He wondered where she was. He’d tried texting her, he’d tried calling, but his calls went to voicemail and his texts went unanswered. It had been days. Was she still on _Pretty in Platemail_? Had she gone back to Tarth? _Maybe she didn’t get my messages. Maybe she lost her phone. _That was it, surely? His wench wouldn’t ignore him, not when he’d made it clear that he forgave her.

“Jaime?” Tyrion said from the doorway of his office. “Not that it isn’t a pleasure to see you, but are you here in your capacity as my client or my brother?”

“I haven’t been in any more punch-ups,” Jaime assured him. “I thought we could grab a coffee.”

Tyrion regarded him with narrowed eyes. “You’d better come in and tell me what’s wrong. Pod!” A skinny intern appeared from the hallway. “Coffee,” Tyrion told him, and the boy nodded and darted away.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jaime said, following Tyrion into his office.

“Brother mine, I’ve known you my entire life and most of yours.” Tyrion hoisted himself onto his desk chair and pointed to the chair across from him. “Sit. Talk.”

Jaime dropped into the indicated chair and put his feet up on Tyrion’s desk. “I think Brienne’s lost her phone.”

“I doubt it, I spoke to her an hour ago.”

Jaime blinked. “You spoke to her? Why?”

“Because she’s now apparently my client, Jaime, thanks to you. And yes, before you ask, _pro bono_. So no, she hasn’t lost her phone, and I deduce by your comment that in fact, she’s ignoring you. What did you do?”

“_I_ didn’t do anything!” Jaime protested. “_She_ was the one being unreasonable. And then she stormed off, and she won’t even apologise.”

Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did _you_ apologise?”

“I’ve got nothing to apologise for.”

“As much as I love you, big brother, I’m entirely confident that is not true.” The intern came in with their coffees and scurried away again. “What happened? From the beginning.”

Jaime went through it – the fight with Connington, that Tyrion already knew all about, his own decision to spend some time in Rosby so Brienne would have someone looking out for her, her infuriating and irrational ingratitude and refusal to see how wrong she was. It didn’t sound quite so clear cut when he came to say it aloud. “And, you know, I _told_ her I would forgive her. That I have forgiven her. But I can’t even tell if she got my messages.”

“So let me just be absolutely sure I have this straight,” Tyrion said slowly. “You told the woman who quite literally saved your life and who has spent the past several months alternately coddling and chivvying you back to some semblance of normality that _she_ needed _you_ to look after her? And then you _forgave_ her for being pissed off about it?”

“It sounds bad when you say it like that,” Jaime said defensively.

“Does it,” Tyrion said flatly.

“Are you going to tell me how to fix it?”

Tyrion sighed. “Dear brother, you are very, _very_ fortunate that my family loyalty outweighs my affection for your blonde giant, because while I’m sure she’d be much better off without your entirely incompetent efforts at friendship, yes, I will tell you how to fix it. Apologise.”

“How? She won’t take my calls. And …” He shrugged. _Cersei always made me say I was the one who was wrong. Cersei always made me _be_ the one who was wrong. _“I don’t want to,” he said, aware he sounded like a sulky child. “She was wrong. And I’m not even making _her_ apologise.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “What would Aunt Genna say?”

That was a low blow, and Jaime glared at his brother. “In about thirty seconds she’d say _Jaime stop hitting your brother_.”

Tyrion shrugged. “Fine. You wanted to know how to fix things with your wench –”

“_Brienne_.”

“With Brienne. I told you. But by all means keep moping around and fretting over the fact that she’s not talking to you instead. But not here, please. Oberyn Martell wants out of his three-picture contract with Casterly Rock, and screwing over our father takes more attention than I can summon with you brooding at me.”

“Why does he want out?”

“Why do actors generally want out of their contracts? Presumably he has a better offer elsewhere.” Tyrion pointed at the door. “Out. Bother Bronn, if you like, although he has sufficient experience with women, even ones he isn’t paying, to give you exactly the advice I have.”

Bronn _did_ give Jaime the exact same advice, once he’d stopped laughing.

Disgruntled, Jaime took himself off to his physiotherapy appointment.

“Can I ask you something?” he said abruptly as Gilly Craster patiently helped him close his useless fingers around one of her implements of torture. “As a woman?”

“Oh, that’s really sweet, but I’m seeing someone,” Gilly said. “A little more – that’s very good.”

“No, I – ouch! You’re a monster. I wasn’t asking you out.” He paused. “If someone was bothering you, you’d want a friend of yours to make sure they stopped, right? To be there to protect you?”

Gilly laughed softly. “You say the strangest things, Mr Jaime.” Like Peck, she deferred to Jaime’s dislike of being called _Mr Lannister_ but couldn’t quite abandon all formality. “I’m no maiden in a story to need protecting from dragons. If someone was bothering me, I’d make sure they stopped myself.”

“No, but –” That was almost what Brienne had said. _You were trying to be my knight in shining armour_. “If someone stopped them, though, even though you could yourself, that’d be … a nice thing for them to do. Right?”

“It would probably depend on what it was,” Gilly said. She worked his fingers again and Jaime grunted at the pain of it. “Does that hurt?”

Jaime blinked sweat out of his eyes. “No, I make noises like that for fun.”

“That’s good.”

“You’re a fucking sadist.”

“Four weeks ago you wouldn’t have felt that,” Gilly said calmly. “So while I’d like it not to hurt you, it’s good that you can feel _something_.”

And she was right. Four weeks ago those fingers were completely numb, and now Jaime couldn’t feel _heat_ or _cold_ or _soft_ or _hard_ but he could feel pain and not-pain and he wanted to call Brienne and tell her _wench I can feel my fingers_ –

But she wasn’t taking his calls, because she was angry at him for absolutely no reason, because she was being irrational. And fuck, he wanted to tell her, she was the only person he wanted to tell, and his eyes were burning and he was almost sure that Gilly could tell despite him turning away from her, and _fuck_. 

He stalked out of Gilly’s practice, vibrating from head to foot in a way he couldn’t stop and couldn’t stand. He refused to apologise for something he hadn’t done, he’d done more than enough of that in his life. Cersei had always needed to be in the right, she’d always needed him to say the words, _I’m sorry, Cersei, I was wrong, I’m so sorry, please forgive me, please, I need you to forgive me, I need you …_ So, fine, he’d loved her and that was what you did when you loved someone, so he’d said it, he’d made himself believe it, but the idea that Brienne would make him do the same thing made his stomach want to turn inside out. Friends weren’t supposed to do that to each other, were they?

He looked it up on the weirnet when he got home. 3ER gave him a bewildering list of options when he typed _having to apologise when you were right_ into the search bar, most of them to do with relationships, not friendships. He skimmed a couple, enough to confirm that he was right to resent Brienne treating him like this, and fuck Tyrion anyway for taking her side and making it sound like Jaime had been the one in the wrong, Tyrion was _his_ brother and supposed to be on _his_ side, the one fucking person who always was –

And suddenly he realised that he’d really overdone it in the gym or at Gilly’s or both because he was cold and sweating and barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting up everything he’d eaten since morning in a series of spasms that left him shaking and weak and struggling to catch his breath. His chest hurt from retching until he might almost have been having a heart attack. _Maybe I’ve caught something_. He could call a maester, but the thought of anyone coming into the apartment made his skin crawl and he seriously doubted he could get down to the street without either passing out or throwing up again. He staggered to his bed and fell onto it, curling up and trying not to think about how sick he felt or about Brienne making him apologise for nothing or about all the times Cersei had done the same thing or, as much as he could manage, about anything at all.

After a while his head stopped spinning enough for him to drag himself back to the living room. He found his phone and texted Gilly and Sandor to let them know he had the flu and would be in touch when he was better, closed his laptop without looking at the screen and lay down on the couch. _It’ll pass_.

Everything did. So long as he could hold still and go somewhere else in his mind from how miserable and shaky and fucking _alone_ he felt, everything eventually passed.


	46. Brienne XVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's not well.

_Please forgive my idiot brother,_ Tyrion’s text message said. _He is truly miserable, as well as truly stupid. You have to understand that everything he knows about normal human behaviour he learned from either movies or myths and legends. _

Brienne read it for the third time, chewing her lip. That was exactly it, wasn’t it? _Normal human behaviour_. She’d seen enough movies to understand how a man who didn’t seem to understand how people interacted like normal humans off the silver screen might think that punching someone who laughed at his friend was completely reasonable and be hurt when she didn’t. And it wasn’t that she hadn’t forgiven him, exactly, just that eighteen text messages and as many voicemails ranging from _Wnch you can apologise n e time u like _to _Brienne I have already forgivn u don’t feel bad_ had made her feel like she needed to take a day or so before she could be sure she could talk to him calmly.

How the Seven Hells Tyrion Lannister had managed to turn out apparently relatively well-adjusted when, from what Brienne had gathered, he’d been more-or-less raised by Jaime was something Brienne couldn’t begin to understand.

_He is truly miserable_.

She found _Jaime L_ in her contacts and pressed the raven icon.

“Wench,” he said in a flat, dragging voice when he answered the call, the word almost slurred.

Brienne frowned. It was early in the day for anybody to be drinking, and Jaime wasn’t exactly given to excessive alcohol consumption. “Jaime. How are you?”

“Flu.”

“Have you got someone looking after you? Tyrion – or Peck, or … someone?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.” He sounded absolutely terrible, in fact, almost as if he wasn’t really there on the other end of the phone. “Jaime? I’m going to be in King’s Landing this evening, do you mind if I come over and make sure you have everything you need?”

“Wench,” he said, and the phone went dead.

Brienne decided to take that as consent. She double-checked that Oathkeeper was still safely locked in the modified gun-case welded to floor of her boot, let Dickon Tarly know that she would be back by tomorrow, and turned south on the King’s Landing road.

She made good time, although it took her a while to find a park on the street, and it wasn’t much more than an hour later before she was pressing the intercom button labelled Loren Hill.

Jaime took so long to answer that Brienne was beginning to wonder if he was going to refuse to let her in. _Or he’s asleep, which means I probably shouldn’t disturb him. _

_Or he’s collapsed_.

She buzzed again.

“What,” Jaime said eventually.

“Jaime, it’s me, it’s Brienne. Please let me in?”

The door dinged. The elevator whisked her upwards. She stepped out to see Jaime leaning against the frame of his front door, and Seven Hells, he looked terrible – not just sick, although he did look ill and pale, but strangely unfocused as well, almost absent.

“Let’s get you lying down,” she said matter-of-factly, and ushered him back inside. He didn’t resist, or argue, but as Brienne got him horizonal on the couch she wasn’t entirely sure he knew she was there or what she was doing. Her hand on his forehead revealed no fever – if anything, he was chilled – but his hair was damp with sweat and it beaded his skin. She fetched a blanket to cover him and a pillow for his head, and then dampened a cloth to wash his face.

That seemed to be the first thing he really registered. He opened his eyes and his gaze focused on her face. “Wench.”

“Yes. I think you might need a maester, Jaime, you’re not at all well.”

“I’ll apologise,” he said still in that strange, flat tone. “If you need. Please don’t make me, though. She –” His face changed and Brienne helped him lean over to dry-heave over the edge of the couch. There was clearly nothing left in his stomach.

She rolled him back when the spasms stopped, fetched him a glass of water and washed his face again. “It’s alright, Jaime.”

“Please don’t make me,” he said again, an edge of something – _panic? desperation?_ – in his voice that frightened her.

“I won’t,” Brienne promised, because while she might not have any idea why the idea was upsetting him so much, it clearly did. “I won’t, Jaime.”

“Gods be good, I’m tired,” he said after a moment, sounding more like himself.

“I’m going to go down to the apothecary,” Brienne said. “You need to drink something with electrolytes and I can probably buy something over the counter that will help with the nausea. Just rest, alright? I’ll be back soon.”

Jaime caught at her hand before she could stand. “Why are you here?”

“You sounded awful on the phone.” She turned her hand over to hold his.

“I feel awful.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Seven Hells, I’m glad you’re here, wench.”

Brienne was still not entirely sure she _shouldn’t_ call a maester – _surely Peck would have a number?_ – but some colour had come back to Jaime’s face and when she smoothed his hair away from his forehead he felt warmer. “I’ll be back soon,” she promised him. “You’ll feel better when you’re less dehydrated.”

She got two large glasses of rehydration salts down him as well as a ginger-root tablet the apothecary had sworn by, and when they didn’t come back up after an hour, she got him to eat a cracker, and when that was successful, most of a piece of toast. He was still worryingly quiet, but the odd blankness lifted slowly off him, and when she sat down on the end of the couch he shifted to put his head in her lap and sighed when she stroked his hair. Brienne called up the weirnet app on her phone and, one handed, typed his symptoms into WeirMaester. _Chill … cold sweat … nausea … _How should she describe that peculiar distant stare? Autocomplete suggested _derealisation_, whatever that was. She tapped the icon of a crow with three eyes and then the first link.

“Do you have a headache, Jaime?”

“Not anymore,” he murmured.

“Any trouble breathing? Or pain in your chest?”

“That’s gone, too.”

_Alright. _“Have you ever had a panic attack before?” she asked carefully.

“It’s stomach flu, wench.”

“Do you want to go to bed and lie down properly?” she asked softly.

“This is good,” Jaime murmured. “Let’s watch a movie.”

“Jaime, you can’t keep your eyes open.”

“Just don’t pick a _silent_ movie.”

And alright, that was close to her Jaime again, so Brienne picked up the remote from the coffee table and navigated her way through the menus to Weirflix. “Let’s see … recommended for you. Another Griff film –”

“You hate those,” Jaime reminded her.

“Something called _Pulp Saga_?”

“You’d hate it. It’s by the guy who made _Kill Bywin_.”

“I liked those.”

“Without swordfights.”

“You’re right, I would hate it. _The Goodfather III_?”

“Not until we’ve watched the first two. Put on _Sunspear Vice_.”

“You’ll heckle.”

“Of course I’ll heckle, wench, that’s why you like to watch it with me. You’ll have to catch me up, though, I’ve missed the last few weeks.”

Brienne sighed. “Fine.” She found the television options, and snorted at the first screen of recommendations. “I don’t know why people freak out that data collection is going to turn into some ‘Bloodraven Is Watching You’ scenario. I mean, Weirflix knows everything you watch and it seems to think that the new series of _Bedding and the City_ is a perfect match to your television tastes.”

“Ridiculous,” Jaime agreed. “Utter nonsense. As if I’d ever watch that.” He paused. “Why don’t you put it on so we can laugh at it?”

“Alright.” She clicked the remote. “Wait, who’s that?”

Jaime opened his eyes for a moment. “Larra Blackmont. She plays a lawyer. The studio was getting flack for not portraying positive female role-models so they added her three seasons ago, and Arianne’s character opened her own publishing company.”

Brienne raised her eyebrows. “Positive female role-models in a show about man-crazy women obsessed with bedding?”

“They’re not man-crazy,” Jaime objected. “They just want to fall in love.” 

“By leaping into bed with every man they meet?”

“That’s just Bella River’s character. And it’s not a bad thing to show a woman who isn’t ashamed of her own sexuality. I mean, Arys Oakhead ends up in a clinch with someone in every episode of _Sunspear Vice_ and you _like_ that show.”

“That’s because he’s denying his attraction to his partner,” Brienne pointed out. “He can’t act on it because they work together, so he’s sublimating it with other women. And anyway, I watch it for the plot.” 

It was Jaime’s turn to snort derisively. “Wench, I assure you, that’s not how it works. He’s just a man-whore.” He shifted a little, pillowing his cheek more comfortably against her thigh. “I’d pay good money to see Hother Umber magically transported into an episode of _Sunspear Vice_. What’s happening now?”

“Arianne Martell shoe montage,” Brienne said succinctly. 

“Are they any good? The shoes?”

“How should I know?”

Jaime opened his eyes again. “I mean, do you like them?”

Brienne shrugged. “I guess? They look uncomfortable. And hard to walk in. Oh, gods be good, how many pairs of shoes does one woman need?”

“All of them,” Jaime said, closing his eyes again. “Arianne’s character is channelling her craving for romance into obsessive consumerism.”

“She should channel into something sensible, like night classes.”

Jaime chuckled, wrapping his arm around her knees. “Don’t ever change, wench.” 

“I think it’s a bit late for me to start trying.”

“Mmm. Brienne.”

“They’re drinking hippocras at eleven in the morning, now. How is that being a positive role-model?”

“Even alcoholics need someone to look up to, I suppose. Brienne.”

She glanced down to see him looking up at her, green eyes very dark in the dim evening light. “I’m here. Are you alright?”

“Tyrion told me I should apologise to you.” He swallowed hard, and when he went on his voice was tight. “Bronn told me I should get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness. Brienne.” His voice broke on her name and he closed his eyes and pressed his face back against her leg.

“Hush, it’s alright, it’s alright,” she said quickly. _Please don’t make me. _What had his father done to him? “I won’t – I promised I wouldn’t make you, and I won’t.”

“I can’t do that again,” he said, low and desperate.

“Well, you don’t need to.” She leaned down over him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and burying her fingers in his hair. “Jaime. Just breathe, alright? Just breathe. I’m here, and you’re safe, and everything’s alright –” And whether it would help, she had no idea, and honestly Brienne felt like she was about three seconds away from her _own_ panic attack, because something was awfully wrong for Jaime and she didn’t know what to do to help him –

She just held him, that was all, and whispered reassurance, and nearly fainted with relief when she felt him begin to relax once more.

“I’m so tired, wench,” he said, and began to cry.

He cried for a long time, for as long as it took for Arianne Martell’s character to go on four terrible dates and for Larra Blackmont’s character to settle three lawsuits and for Bella River’s character to have more sex than Brienne privately considered reasonable. She held him and carded his hair and told him that he was alright, that everything was alright, over and over again until he was limp and quiet against her.

“Jaime. I’m going to put you to bed, now.”

He let her get him onto his feet, wavering, let her steer him into his bedroom and lower him down onto the bed. He said her name with something like panic as she stepped back to reach for the covers, so Brienne drew the blankets over him and then lay down beside him.

Jaime pressed his face to her shoulder and went out, all at once, as if he couldn’t hold on to consciousness any longer. But that was alright, because Brienne could hold on for him.

And she did. 


	47. Jaime XXII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning.

There was a nightmare somewhere behind him, but it was a long way behind him. Jaime felt good, from head to toe: tired, as if he’d been fighting all day in a tourney or just finished a hard run, but it was the good kind of tired, a pleasant contentment, and he just let himself drift in it. Slowly he began to drift upwards, to awareness. Muscular and gentle arms were wrapped around him, Brienne’s arms, holding him close to the warm strength of her, her fingers tracing tenderly through his hair.

“Brienne,” he mumbled.

“Shhh,” she whispered. “It’s alright, Jaime. Shhh.”

So he went back to sleep again for a while, or half-asleep, floating against her and feeling better than he had since those days on Tarth. _I’m going to move to Tarth. _

“And be a fisherman?” Brienne asked, sounding amused.

“Open a bed and breakfast for the tourists,” Jaime murmured. “You’ll have to cook the breakfasts.”

“Alright,” Brienne said softly, and Jaime slid away into a world where he and Brienne ran a B&B on Tarth and she taught him to cook her astonishing breakfasts and Selwyn and Alyssane came for dinner and he taught children with fair hair and green-blue eyes to duel … it was sweet, breathtakingly so, that world. _Grandpa, Grandpa_, the children called, running to Selwyn, and Brienne slipped her hand into Jaime’s and pressed a kiss to his cheek …

“Brienne,” he said, and woke himself up.

She was still there, so close to him, her fingers running through his hair. “How are you feeling?”

His stomach was no longer the least bit upset. “I think I’m over it.”

“Good.” Her breath brushed against his temple as she spoke. “Jaime? You scared me a little bit, yesterday.”

“It was just a flu.”

“Alright. But maybe you could get checked out by a maester? Just in case?”

“I’m fine, wench.”

“Mmm. But I have to go back to the set and I don’t want to be worrying about you.”

He smiled. “You’d worry about me?”

“Of course I would. Friends worry about each other.”

“I worry about you. But you got angry at me for it.”

“That’s not why I was angry,” Brienne said. “But we don’t need to talk about it, if you don’t want.”

“They hurt you, and I _hated_ it, and I thought I’d fixed it and then you were angry with me and I made you unhappy.”

Brienne stared at him for a moment. “Jaime. It’s not about fixing things.” She reached out to take his right hand. “Do you think I don’t want to fix this for you? Or wish I’d been able to stop it happening? Or wished I could turn into Wun-Wun and break all _their_ hands for them?” She squeezed his hand gently, although he could really only feel her touch in his first two fingers. “All that happened to me was a guy kissed me and some other guys laughed at me. I’ll get over it. I mean, would you like me to go around punching everyone who said things about you I didn’t like?”

_Yes._ Brienne, blue eyes blazing, breaking the nose or the jaw of Petyr Baelish with one powerful blow … “Um.” And of all possible inconvenient moments, his cock chose _this_ one to stir. “I’m supposed to say no?” he hazarded.

Brienne’s smile was soft and warm. “Oh, Jaime. Tyrion was right, you need to stop taking your life lessons from movies and television. Or at least start watching some that don’t exclusively use sharp objects for conflict resolution. Yes, you’re supposed to say no.”

“Are you still angry with me?”

“Are you still going to insist on trying to protect me from my life?”

“No?”

That was apparently also the right answer, because her smile widened. “Alright.”

He squeezed her hand back with the thumb and forefinger that were all that responded to him. “It wasn’t your fault. My hand.”

“I know.” 

“I don’t know how I would have made it, then or later, without you.” He closed his eyes. “That’s what I should have done, isn’t it? Like you with the coffeemaker.”

“It was very sweet of you to be angry on my behalf.”

“But it wasn’t what you needed from a friend.”

“No.” 

“What should I do next time?”

“Just ask,” Brienne said, so gently it was barely more than a breath. “Just say, Brienne, I feel like you might be upset about something. Is there anything you need me to do?”

“I can do that.”

“I have to go now. Is there anything you need before I do?”

He shook his head without raising it from the pillow. “I’ll sleep a bit more, I think. And then make a maester’s appointment.”

“Good.” Brienne ran her fingers through his hair one more time and got out of bed. “Text me to let me know how you get on.”

Jaime did go back to sleep for a while after the door closed behind Brienne. He finally woke up properly mid-morning, texted Brienne to let her know and texted Peck to get a maester’s appointment for the afternoon. He ate several pieces of dry toast and had tea instead of coffee for safety’s sake, and texted Brienne to let her know that as well. He lay on the couch and watched another three episodes of _Bedding and the City_ and texted Brienne to let her know that the committed relationship between Larra Blackmont’s character and her long-term girlfriend had been ground-breaking when it was first included on the show and demonstrated that _Bedding and the City_ was far more nuanced and realistic than _Sunspear Vice_.

She sent back _Oh, the strongest female character is a lesbian? Colour me unsurprised. _

_U shd give the shoe a chance, wench_, he typed.

_Because what I really need is to be six inches taller._

_I meant show. But u wd look good in those shoes 2._

His thumb pressed the raven icon reflexively. An instant later he realised what a mistake it was. _Crone’s cunt, I sound like I’m hitting on her, shit, shit –_ what should he say, _just japing_? No, he couldn’t tell her he was japing about her looking good after what those assholes on the set had done, _fuck, fuck, I have to fix it, fuck –_

The flapping raven stopped. _I would fall over_, he read, and began to breathe more easily again. Fine. It was fine. She hadn’t taken it the wrong way. She didn’t think he was so much of an asshole as to creep on a woman who had driven for an hour at the end of a long working day because she was worried about a friend.

_I wd catch u_, he sent. That was alright, wasn’t it?

_If I ever wear heels I will hold you to that_. _Have to go for a bit. _

_L8r._

Alright. He just had to be more careful.

Maester Pylos was younger than Jaime preferred his maesters – it was hard to take seriously the expertise of someone younger than Tyrion, and Pylos couldn’t have been more than twenty-five – but he’d taken over when his old maester, Cressen, had finally retired and the hassle of changing practices had discouraged Jaime from going to the effort of finding a grown-up. Pylos was also young enough to be uncertain of his own diagnosis, which was how Jaime found himself with a referral to a specialist, Maester Luwin. 

Luwin said he could fit Jaime in that afternoon when Pylos called him, so Jaime texted Brienne to complain about the wasted time and traipsed across town to spend fifteen minutes cooling his heels in a nondescript waiting room.

His phone only squawked the once. _I looked him up. He has a good reputation_, Brienne had sent.

The door opened and a small, slim man with thinning grey hair and grey eyes – in fact he looked very much grey all over, grey cardigan and slacks. “Mr Lannister?”

“I prefer Jaime,” Jaime said, getting to his feet.

Luwin smiled, and his smile was warm and not at all grey. “Jaime. And you should go ahead and call me Luwin. Come in.”

He had to go through the whole thing again, yes, he’d experienced nausea, yes, chills, yes breathlessness, yes, his chest had hurt. “Flu, right? I don’t know why Pylos sent me here. I’m over it, anyway.”

“Mmm. Did you experience any sense of … unreality, or distance from your surroundings?”

Jaime blinked at him. “Well, yes, but not more than when I usually go away inside.”

“Mmm.” Luwin made a note. “Can you tell me more about that?”

“It’s just what I do to wait things out.” He shrugged. “I’m an actor. I have a good imagination when it comes to pretending things. I just pretend I’m somewhere else. Or nowhere else.”

Luwin nodded, and made another note. “Can you tell me a little bit about your childhood? Your family, things like that?”

Jaime frowned. “What’s my family got to do with my stomach flu? What sort of maester are you, anyway?”

“I’ve forged three silver links in the treatment of mental and emotional disorders.”

Jaime shot to his feet. “Seven Hells, I’m not fucking crazy!”

“According to what I see so far, no, you aren’t. But you did just describe to me fairly classic symptoms of a panic or anxiety attack, quite a severe one, and since they’re extremely unpleasant, it might be a good idea to find out what caused it?”

Jaime held out his right hand, turning it so Luwin could see the scars. “I was kidnapped and held prisoner by fucking animals who smashed my hand and nearly killed me a couple of months ago, might that have something to fucking do with it?”

“Well, we can certainly start there,” Luwin said. 


	48. Ravens II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter told in texts.

17:25 Jaime L: _When u said u looked him up wench u didn’t say hes a shrink_

17:26 B Tarth: _I worried you wouldn’t go._

17:32 Jaime L: _Do u think Im crazy?_

17.33 B Tarth: _No of course not._ _You were the one who told me to talk to someone, remember? Do you think I have a mental health disorder?_

17:35 Jaime L: _Wench u r sanest person I know and poss sanest person I evr met. Will u still b my friend when Im in the loony bin?_

17:48 B Tarth: _First of all, I don’t approve of the term ‘loony bin’. Did Maester Luwin suggest you spend time in a hospital?_

17:48 Jaime L: _He thinks I shd meditate._

17:48 B Tarth: _Then I think you’re probably quite a few steps short of a padded room._

17:49 Jaime L:_ Also Im the crazy 1 so I will call it loony bin if I want._

18:15 B Tarth:_ Go home, watch more Bedding and the City, if it’s the masterwork of social realism you claim I’m sure it will educate you on why that’s a stigmatising and inappropriate term._

18:16 Jaime L: _Can I call u when ur free?_

18:33 B Tarth: _Of course you can, usual time?_

18:35 Jaime L: _K._

18:48 Jaime L: _wnech have u heard from ur father_

18:59 B Tarth: _Not today, why?_

19:00 B Tarth: _Is there something on Ravengram? _

19:01 B Tarth: _What did he post?_

19:02: Jaime L: _It’s a really nice picture._

19:03 B Tarth: _Of what?_

19:03 Jaime L: _wait ttyring 2 work out how 2 send u_

19:15 Jaime L: [a picture of a tall man with golden hair and beard with his arm slung around the shoulders of a taller, fair-haired woman. He is grinning up at her and she is laughing.]

19:15 Jaime L: _its nice. Ur eyes look relay blue. _

19:34 B Tarth: _I’ll kill him._

19:35 Jaime L: _Wench don’t worry I doubt the gossip colmns weirnet stalk SelwynEvenstarTarth._

19:35 Jaime L: _But_

19:36 Jaime L: _He did caption it ‘my future goodson’_

19:45 B Tarth: _Oh Jaime im so sorry I swear I never gave him any reason to think that I swear I never would I’ll make him take it down_

19:45 Jaime L: _Relax wench I know u had nothing to do with it. It’s funny tho. And the picture is nice. 57 other ppl think so too, from the feathers._

19:45 B Tarth: _Im so sorry he’s I don’t even know I will kill him_

19:46 Jaime L: _wench_ _u r not allowed to have a panic attak that’s my thing_

19:47 Jaime L: _wench?_

19:48 Jaime L: _wench if u r panicking u shd call me im an expert now_

19:49 Jaime L: _wench?_

19:53 B Tarth: _Jaime why is Samwell Tarly in my trailer waving a bottle of seaditves in my face?_

19:54 Jaime L: _He is set maester and u were having a panick attack. _

19:55 B Tarth: _Jaime I was talking to my father on the phone getting him to take the picture down. _

19:55 Jaime L: _so u r alright? _

19:56 B Tarth: _apart from both the men in my life driving me insane?_

19:57 Jaime L: _u can join me in the loony bin_

19:58 Jaime L: _wench?_

20:03 B Tarth: _Jaime it was very nice of you to be concerned but you have to learn to wait more than three minutes before assuming the worst._

20:03 Jaime L: _it was 4._

20:04 B Tarth: _four is not enough either_

20:04 Jaime L: _u said more than 3. 4 is more than 3._

20:05 Jaime L: _wench? _

20:05 B Tarth: _Brienne Tarth is not available to answer your raven, as she has been kidnapped by merfolk pirates._

20:06 Jaime L: _when I have nightmares tonight it will be ur fault._

20:10 B Tarth: _try meditating_

20:11 Jaime L: _u shd mediate too u seem very tense_

20:12 Jaime L: _wench?_

20:13 Jaime L:_ Can I have ur dd’s phone number?_

20:22 B Tarth: _I’ve already yelled at him, don’t worry. He won’t do it again._

20:23 Jaime L: _No I want a copy of picture wiout ravengram watermark. _

20:35 B Tarth: _Why?_

20:36 Jaime L: _I like it. U look really happy in it. I was telling u about Tyrion and Bronn and the time we all went to starfall, remember? And they tricked me into thinking they found a dragon egg. And I tried to hatch it for 3 months. U laughed so hard u almost fell over. _

20:37 B Tarth: _I still don’t believe you tried for three months._

20:37 Jaime L: _ofc otherwise tyrion wd have been disappointed._

20:38 B Tarth: _did you really sleep with it?_

20:39 Jaime L: _no but don’t tell my brother_.

20:39 Jaime L: _also pls don’t tell him im seeing a shrink_

20:42 B Tarth: _You don’t need to be embarrassed about it, Jaime. Lots of people see mental health professionals. Probably not as many as should._

20:43 Jaime L: _hes been telling me I shd for years. Hell be insufferable. _

20:46 B Tarth: _about that thing you told me? I thought you said he didn’t know._

20:54 Jaime L: _something else. Long story._

20:56 B Tarth: _Maybe you should talk to Maester Luwin about it. _

20:57 Jaime L: _He’s 107 in the shade I doubt his heart could tke it _

20:58 B Tarth: _The weirnet said he was an expert witness for the prosecution against Ramsay Snow. I think his heart could handle whatever you threw at him. _

20:59 Jaime L: _Ramsy Snow? Crone’s cunt._

20:59 B Tarth: _You know I don’t appreciate that language._

21:00 Jaime L: _Maiden’s tit? _

21:01 B Tarth: _Jaime!_

21:02 Jaime L: _She has a very nice pair in most of the paintings._

21:02 B Tarth: _Don’t make me call your Aunt Genna._

21:03 Jaime L: _u fight dirty wench Im impressed. _

21:05 Jaime L: _wench I know it’s early r u busy tho_

21:05 B Tarth: _I’m not busy, just reading strange text messages from a very odd man obsessed with the Seven’s private parts._

21:06 Jaime L: _did u type that without blushing?_

21:07 B Tarth: _Of course._

21:08 Jaime L: _r u lying tho? _

21:09 B Tarth: _After I found out that Dad told the population of Tarth that we’re betrothed, I don’t think I have any more blushes left in me._

21:10 Jaime L: _I_ _will get u a ring. u can break up with me nicely next month. I will be publically heartbroken but we will be adults and remain friends. Problem solved._

21:11 Jaime L: _wench?_

21:13 B Tarth: _I’m sorry my mind is too busy boggling at that idea to answer texts right now._

21:14 Jaime L: _why bggling? _

21:16 B Tarth: _Jaime are you seriously suggesting we get fake betrothed and then fake break up because my dad is an idiot?_

21:17 Jaime L: _works in the movies_

21:18 B Tarth: _haven’t we talked about that?_

21:19 Jaime L: _u like those movies_

21:20 B Tarth: _not the fake dating ones, I told you that. _

21:21 B Tarth: _also no-one would believe it_

21:22 Jaime L: _I know u r too nice to break a betrothal. I could get photographed with a stripper tho._

21:23 B Tarth: _so you would fake cheat on your fake fiancé so we could fake break our fake betrothal? _

21:24 Jaime L: _now ur getting it wench_

21:25 B Tarth: _Jaime Lannister you are the most ridiculous human alive. _

21:25: Jaime L: _well I wouldn’t really cheat on u so it would have to be fake cheating_

21:26 B Tarth: _no. _

21:27 Jaime L: _wench r u refusing to accept my fake proposal? I’m fake heartbroken._

21:28 B Tarth: _Good thing you’re in real therapy._

21:29 Jaime L: _I’m on 1 knee and everything. _

21:31 Jaime L: _wench u r very cruel to turn me down like this_

21:31 Jaime L: _or r u only fake turning me down? _

21:33 Jaime L: _wench_.

21:33 Jaime L: _?_

21:36 B Tarth: _Jaime I know you’re only japing but could you sometimes think first?_

21:27 Jaime L: _but it would solve everything _

21:28 B Tarth: _because I would find it so much less embarrassing to have everyone wondering what someone like you was doing with someone like me and then nodding wisely when you get photographed wrapped around some semi-naked supermodel and saying no wonder? Instead of just living with people knowing my dad likes you and is a bit over-enthusiastic about it? _

21:33 Jaime L: _wench. 1 st im glad ur dad likes me bec I wasn’t sure. 2 nd what in the 7 hells do u mean by that 1 st part? Some1 like me wd be lucky to marry some1 like u. I would ask u out in a hot second if I thought about u like that._

21:35 B Tarth: _but you don’t, right? Is my point._

21:36 Jaime L: _bec_ _ur my friend and im not a creep. _

21: 36 Jaime L: _if this is about those assholes and wat they said I don’t care what u say I will fucking kill them. _

21:37 Jaime L: _Brienne they r idiots with small dicks. _

21:39 B Tarth: _Jaime, it’s not like they’re the first. _

21:40 Jaime L: _I need complete list of names and las known addresses_

21:45 B Tarth: _if you’re going to go around punching everyone who’s pointed out the obvious over the past twenty years you’ll be spending a lot of time punching and longer in jail. _

21:46 Jaime L: _Brienne, I feel like u might be upset about something. Is there anything u need me to do_

21:47 B Tarth: _no but I appreciate you asking, Jaime, you’re a good friend. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I didn’t make it clear, the way the texters (raveners?) are identified is because this is Brienne’s phone. If it was Jaime’s phone it would be an exchange between Blue Brienne and Me.  
Ramsay Snow is locked up for life and will, under no circumstances, meet either Sansa or Jeyne Poole in this fic.


	49. Jaime XXIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Jaime gets another role. Brienne's job finishes.

The remaining weeks of the _Pretty in Platemail_ shoot passed all too slowly as far as Jaime was concerned. He visited Brienne twice, the first time with Dornish takeaway and the second with a Pentoshi meal from the best restaurant in King’s Landing, to give her a break from craft services and set catering. He would have visited more often, but he had to spend ten days in the Eyrie shooting _The Hawk and the Dove_, which was actually … interesting, if he stopped thinking about how much he would have preferred playing one of the participants in the tourney and how much better he would have been at it than any of the actors actually cast, once. _But no more._

But at least he wasn’t playing the villain in this one. He still had to die in act two, and it was an ignominious murder in a dark corridor, but the Grey Falcon was an aging knight doing his desperate best to protect the Dove of the title from the evil Mockingbird. Jaime endured several hours in makeup every morning as grey was added to his hair and his now-clipped beard and lines to his face and he had to dig back into the past to pull up memories of acting classes to remember how to move and stand like a man older than he was, but he got on the plane back to King’s Landing feeling as if he might have done a decent enough job, especially with the scene when the Grey Falcon had pledged his sword to the Dove. Young Jeyne Westerling had been sterling in that scene as well, making the acting choice to stumble over the words of the oath of fealty until he’d prompted her, not as one actor prompting another but as the Grey Falcon would have done to the terrified young girl he was swearing to protect.

He hadn’t even been really aware of the cameras until someone called _cut_, and when Jeyne asked him if she’d been alright, Jaime’d had to turn to the director for an answer.

Well, Jeyne might get her first Iron Throne nomination for the film, and she’d deserve it. She’d cried real tears during his death scene. Jaime’s own part wasn’t large enough to expect even a supporting actor nomination, but work was work and not stabbing someone in the back midway through the first act was a welcome change.

He trained with Sandor. He kept his appointments with Gilly Craster and the day he realised he could almost touch his palm with the middle finger of his right hand he called Brienne even though it was the middle of the day and she couldn’t answer and left a voice-mail almost five minutes long and she called him back within half-an-hour and he was almost certain she was crying on the other end of the phone, but not because she was upset, in fact the opposite. That made him cry as well, standing on the street in full view of everyone.

When he arrived at Maester Luwin’s office for his thrice-weekly appointment that afternoon, Jaime still felt drained and shaky. He had to explain that he wasn’t actually having some kind of breakdown, which led to his showing Luwin the picture of Brienne on his phone’s lock-screen and explaining about her, which took the rest of the hour until Luwin said _I’m afraid we’re out of time._

That was certainly a more pleasant way to spend a therapy session than usual. Alright, he’d had a panic attack, and he didn’t want to have another one, so _fine_, he’d answer Luwin’s questions about the Brave Companions, which meant he had to explain about his father just ignoring their ransom demand, which meant explaining a lot more about Tywin Lannister than Jaime usually did because _we don’t really talk _didn’t satisfy the maester. Well, _fine_, he wasn’t the only person in Westeros on bad terms with a parent, was he? And it wasn’t like Tywin Lannister, cold and overbearing and always, always right was the sort of parental presence anyone missed. So he told Luwin about that, and about Tyrion, and about the way their father treated Tyrion and how Cersei did and how he’d never done enough to protect his little brother but that Tyrion had turned out alright, everything considered.

So then next time he had to explain about Cersei, not all of it of course, but about how he’d loved her and wanted to marry her right up until he dragged himself out of the pit after _Kingslayer_ to find she’d married Robert Baratheon, his father’s fault. And then he had to explain about _Kingslayer_, well, most of it was public record although not his father’s part in the whole mess, so Jaime picked his way through a story that had some resemblance to the truth, _you can’t tell anyone what I say to you, right?_

And then he was telling the little grey man with the warm smile about _Burn them all _and Ned Stark’s cold grey eyes judging him and the nightmares and how sometimes he saw green flames flashing along the street in broad daylight. About being Jaime Kingslayer Lannister because fuck it, if everyone was going to think the worst of him he might as well get a decent career out of it and there was no way in the Seven Hells he was going to work with his _father_ again –

_Although he tells me every time I can’t avoid him at some fucking awards dinner or premier that he’ll cast me again straight away if I just apologise –_

Luwin’s eyes were grey, too, like Ned Stark’s, but there was no judgment in them as he said _It seems to me that you’ve been under a considerable amount of stress for quite a long time_ and Jaime found himself just outright sobbing his way through most of the box of tissues Luwin silently handed him.

So no, none of that was as pleasant as explaining about how amazing Brienne was, but _fine_, maybe Tyrion had been right about Cersei not being good for him and maybe, now he thought about it, it had been the idea that Brienne might be anything like Cersei that had made him feel like he was dying. And maybe he couldn’t imagine Cersei holding him through a stupid crying jag but he could remember her telling him to _pull himself together_ three days after _Kingslayer_, and he would have done anything for her, _had_ done everything she’d ever asked of him, but he couldn’t think of a single thing she’d ever done for him. _I’m starting to wonder if she loved me as much as I loved her_, he said to Luwin, and cried again. 

All of that was unpleasant, but then _Pretty in Platemail _wrapped, or at least Brienne’s part of it did, and Jaime had nearly a week of his wench’s company. A year ago, he knew, he wouldn’t have considered a good day to be one spent trying to last thirty seconds sparring against an opponent and then putting up with Gilly Craster’s doe-eyed reproach if he failed to give one-thousand-percent, but a year ago he hadn’t had a friend who would be as eager as he was to wake up at four in the morning on a day off to drive to the Twins and spend half-a-day tramping around looking for the place the latest archaeological dig had identified as a likely location of headquarters of the Brotherhood Without Banners. And he hadn’t had a friend who would fall easily asleep against his shoulder in the middle of _Wenches_ _Just Want To Have Fun_ with her arms wrapped around his waist and let him soothe her through the bad dreams that made her moan and shudder in her sleep. _Hush, it’s alright, you’re alright_, he whispered in her ear as she held to him and pleaded _Jaime, Jaime_ …

_I’m here_, he told Brienne each time, _I’m here_, until the tension went out of her with a violent shiver and she subsided into sleep again. The way she nestled against him as she eased back into a deeper rest made Jaime’s chest warm and his throat feel tight and swollen. 

His throat wasn’t the only thing tight and swollen when Brienne sighed and pressed closer to him, but Jaime managed to maintain enough self-control to only ease himself in the privacy of his bathroom and then, fuck, it might make him a creep and an asshole but all he could think of as he stroked himself was Brienne pressed against him, Brienne with her leg carelessly thrown over his in sleep, Brienne’s strong arms around him and her muscular body pressed to his –

After the first few days he started to take a pillow into the bathroom so when his knees gave under the force of his release he didn’t get any difficult-to-explain bruises. And gods be good, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had plenty of experience frigging himself to completion over the years of Cersei blowing ice-cold and wildfire hot but never so fiercely as he leave him slumped on the ground with his mind blank of every though but _ yes so good so good sogoodsogood …_

When he allowed himself to think about what it would be like to have Brienne’s arms around him, her hand replacing his hand, he came so hard he almost passed out, and ended up sprawled on the floor of the bathroom so long that Brienne tapped on the door, asking if he was alright.

“Fine,” he managed to say without slurring the word too much, and pulled himself together enough to clean himself up and go out to watch another episode of _Sunspear Vice _with her, although he passed out with his head on her shoulder well before the end. He woke up in bed with her arms wrapped around him, one far too close to his nipples for his self control, the other just above the waistband of his tracksuit pants – _fuck, _Arrax, Balerion, Caraxes, Dreamfyre, _Aegon the Conqueror, Aegon the Second, Aegon The Unlikely … no there were three more between them …_ oh, fuck, it wasn’t working, not even slightly_, he was so hard, he was so close, fuck, not now, not now –_

Jaime managed to extract himself from Brienne’s arms without waking her and make it to the bathroom, where two quick strokes brought him off, biting his lip to stifle his groans. _This is getting unreasonable_, he thought as he cleaned up. _You’d think I was four-and-ten, not four-and-thirty_. 

He’d definitely have to get his cock under control before accepting any roles that required romantic embraces, that was clear.

Fortunately his absent self-control began to reappear a week later, although not before Brienne left to drive north to testify at the trial of those members of the Brave Companions who had survived. Jaime had offered to have Tyrion make sure she could testify by weir-link as he was going to, and then had offered to come north with her anyway, but Brienne had given him her _look_ which said he was being an idiot and in about five more minutes she was going to tell him so, so he shut up.

He did manage to prevail on the topic of her stopping at Darry overnight rather than trying to make the whole drive in one day, and arranged for her to stay with his cousin Lancel and his wife Amerei. _Just don’t mention religion_, he warned her, hugged her goodbye and gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek.

_You weren’t kidding about religion,_ she texted him that night.

Jaime grinned. _Oh no wench u didn’t_

_I didn’t say a word. I didn’t need to, and I couldn’t get one in sideways if I’d tried._

_Sorry, wench. I shd have booked u a hotel._

_Amerei is also very interesting. _

_Vry tactful of u_

_I wouldn’t have expected someone as devout as Lancel to be married to a woman who calls herself ‘Gatehouse Ami’._

Jaime laughed aloud at the thought of what Brienne’s expression must be. _Why do u think he’s so devout? Marriage to Gatehouse Ami would drive any man to his knees. _

_Is that a dirty joke?_

_Wench u would know if I made a dirty joke. Listen, don’t be mad, but pod will be meeting u in moat Cailin._

_A pod of what? _Brienne sent back swiftly.

_Podrick payne he is my bro’s intern. He needs experience. He will be handling legal stuff for u._

_Jaime I’m a witness, not on trial. There’s no legal stuff to handle._

_Just in case. It’s a favour. For tyrion. And pod. He is a nice kid. U will like him. Look after him 4 tyrion pls?_

_Of course,_ Brienne sent back instantly, and Jaime grinned. _Ah, wench, kindness will always be your downfall._

_Thanks_. _U shd sleep. Long dribve tomorrow._

_Good night, Jaime._

_Goodnight, wnech. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that I’m sorry I haven’t been able to reply to all your comments, which I usually try to do, but I appreciate every single one of them. I write for myself but I publish for feedback, so do please keep it coming!


	50. Brienne XIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly, and alas briefly, NSFW. Brienne arrives back in Moat Cailin. Everything's fine, until it isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to get tough for our clueless idiots in friendlove for a while, so brace yourselves.   
Slightly, and alas briefly, NSFW

When Brienne picked Podrick Payne up from the Moat Cailin airport, she discovered that he was a skinny boy with straight hair that was constantly falling into his eyes. Brienne could quite see why Tyrion Lannister thought he needed someone to take care of him, but she was careful not to let him know: he was of the age when young men tended to take that badly. She let him tell her about the motel she was booked into and the schedule for the court, she accepted the takeaway menus he’d printed off the weirnet and put in a neat folder, she complimented him on managing to get all that done from King’s Landing – but she drew the line at letting him carry her bags for her, although she managed not to insist he let her carry _his_.

“I’ve arranged for you to use the underground carpark at the courthouse,” he told her the next morning. “There’s quite a lot of press interest in the trial, so you won’t want to be going in and out of the front door. They’ll be disappointed not to see Mr Lannister.”

“Jaime,” Brienne corrected absently, checking the oncoming traffic before pulling out. “He prefers Jaime.”

“Mr Jaime.” Pod’s earnestness made Brienne smile. “You’re one of the first witnesses, so the reporters will know who you are almost immediately, even if they can’t print anything until after the trial. Mr Lannister, my Mr Lannister, says you should simply tell anyone who tries to interview you to call him. You’re booked at the motel under the name _Alysanne Storm_, so –”

“What?” Brienne spared enough attention from the road to glance at him.

“Mr Lannister, Mr Jaime, said that was the name you used for hotels?”

“I usually use my own name for hotels.”

Pod shook his head. “You can’t do that, anymore. The press will never leave you alone. But unless they know your car, they won’t be able to know it’s you leaving the car park and follow you, so you shouldn’t need to worry about getting papped. But it’s probably best to stick to take-out.”

“They won’t be much interested in me,” Brienne reassured him, then quickly added, “but thank you for taking such care to make sure my privacy isn’t invaded.”

She parked, double-checked Oathkeeper as had become habit, and went up to the courthouse in the elevator. _I have to turn off my phone now,_ she texted Jaime. _Pod is fine. I will keep an eye on him. _

_Break a leg wench_ he sent back immediately.

Brienne smiled, and reluctantly turned her phone off. 

She had to wait several hours before being called into the courtroom to testify. It wasn’t the first time: not only had she had to give testimony at Joffrey Baratheon’s trial, but she’d been in the stand as a witness several times during her time with the Gold Cloaks and the Rainbow Guard. She hadn’t been a _key_ witness in any of them, though, and she had to work to keep from being nervous as she put her hand on the copy of _The Seven Pointed Star _and took the oath. “I do swear to testify truthfully. I swear it by the Mother. May I never know her mercy if I lie. I swear it by the Father, and ask that he might judge me justly. I swear it by the Maiden and Crone, by the Smith and the Warrior. And I swear it by the Stranger, may he take me now if I am false."

“Be seated,” said the judge, and she sat down.

There were at least a dozen defendants in the dock, and while they didn’t all have lawyers, a lot of them did. Some of them Brienne didn’t recognise, but the man with the teeth filed to sharp points gave her an evil grin when he caught her eye and Qyburn gave her a warm, avuncular smile that made her skin crawl.

She was careful to tell her story clearly, concisely, and without any speculation – nothing for the defence lawyers to use to cast doubt on her accuracy. She spoke strictly of things she herself had seen and heard: their abduction, the blow to Jaime’s head – so hard she’d feared for a while that his skull was cracked, but she kept that to herself – Jaime’s lie about _sapphires_, the guns, the threats, the day without food and water. Hoat, and the crowbar, and Shagwell holding Jaime for it. How sick he’d been, how brave, the beatings, the way Jaime had stopped them, Qyburn, the Night’s Watch …

The cross-examination was easy, compared to some she’d endured, but then, it was hard for the lawyers to call into question the actual events: her own medical records, and Jaime’s, would be entered into evidence and apart from Qyburn and the biker with the teeth, most of the people Brienne could positively identify as participating had died in the shootout with the Night’s Watch.

She really hoped that Jaime had been well prepared by Tyrion, and that he managed to keep his temper under control during cross-examination, but she couldn’t wait in the courtroom to watch it: until the trial ended, there was always the possibility that she might be recalled to the stand.

Brienne turned her phone back on and drove back to the motel. Despite Podrick’s constant supply of coffees, teas, snacks, and assorted magazines and newspapers, it was a long several hours before her phone squawked. _Jaime L calling_. She tapped the raven and raised the phone. “Hey.”

“Hey, wench. How did you go?”

“Fine, but we’re not supposed to talk about it.”

“I don’t think _fine_ qualifies as talking about it. I was _fine_ too.”

“Good.” She remembered Pod’s earlier words. “Alysanne Storm?”

Jaime chuckled. “The fearless Good Queen Alysanne. Rider of Silverwing.”

“You couldn’t have picked something ordinary, like _Jeyne_ or _Lysa_?”

“I’ll have you know I thought very hard about finding the right alias for you, wench. You are most definitely not a _Jeyne_ or a _Lysa_.” 

“I suppose I should just be glad not to find myself checked in as _Wench_.”

“I tried, they wouldn’t accept the reservation.”

“You did not.”

“I did not,” Jaime agreed cheerfully. “But it’s a better story if I did, isn’t it?”

Brienne snorted. “Jaime, you’re impossible. Go to your physio.”

“Yes, nanny wench,” he said, and hung up before she could say anything to _that_.

She didn’t have to actually attend the rest of the trial unless called in for more testimony, just be available. _Being available_ meant being in Moat Cailin, which ruled out investigating Barrowton or White Harbour, although Jaime told her to go anyway and plead ignorance of the requirements of the court if it turned out to be a problem, and just laughed when she scolded him. She could go and see the old castle actually _in_ Moat Cailin, which was something, but she’d seen it before, so it wasn’t much. The rest of the time she sat in her motel room, read, surfed the weirnet, and texted Jaime, or talked to him on the phone. In the evenings they argued over which movie to stream on Weirflix and then watched it at the same time, Jaime heckling by text if Brienne had won the argument. She suspected that he had a well-concealed romantic streak, though, because he was never as uncomplimentary when she chose something sentimental as he was over _Sunspear Vice_ and its star, Arys Oakheart.

And if she found it hard to get to sleep after they’d said goodnight until she’d slipped her hand between her legs and imagined that her fingers were _his_ fingers and that her hand on her breast was _his_ hand and _yes like that Jaime, like that, Jaime, Jaime …_ well, she was only human, and it wasn’t like anyone knew, least of all Jaime. 

“Wench,” Jaime said on the fourth day of the trial. “I have to tell you something.”

Brienne sat upright, frowning. “Is something wrong? Did the maesters say something about your hand? Are you alright?”

“I’m alright, my hand is fine, Maester Luwin isn’t about to have me committed, _Brienne. _I just need to tell you something, and I need you to just listen, and then for once I need you to just do what I tell you to, alright? There’s a story about you online, Tyrion is working to get it taken down and he’ll probably manage it, _don’t_ look at it, wench. Trust me.”

Brienne felt as if a cold hand was squeezing her stomach all of a sudden. “Why? What – why shouldn’t I look at it?”

“Because it’s nonsense and it’s rubbish written by someone who hasn’t the faintest idea about you. Listen, I have a lot of experience with this, and you need to listen to me like you made me listen to you in that room with the Brave Companions. _Don’t look at it_.”

“I’ll call you back,” Brienne said numbly.

“Brienne!” Jaime almost shouted as she ended the call.

Her phone squawked again as she pulled her laptop towards her, and then again, and again, missed calls, text alerts. She opened 3ER and typed _Brienne Tarth_ in the search field.

It was the first result. _Big Brienne, The Lion-Tamer?_ From the _Gulltown Gossip_’s weirsite. Her hand shaking, Brienne moved the mouse pointer and clicked the link.

Someone knocked on her door. “Miss Tarth?” Pod called. “I have Mr Jaime on the phone, he needs to talk to you, urgently. Miss Tarth?”

_What woman wouldn’t fall for the handsome Kingslayer’s wicked charm and sizeable bank balance, especially once he’d saved her life?_ Brienne read. _Clearly not Brienne Tarth, who has made herself Jaime Lannister’s constant companion since they shared fraught hours in captivity and, she claims, he risked his life to protect her virginity – hardly a prize a woman like her would guard. The former failed bodyguard, who stood by and watched as Joffrey Baratheon murdered Eddard Stark, is trying to rehab her way in the Kingslayer’s heart and bed. _

“Miss Tarth!” Pod said. “Please! I want to keep my job!”

_That might seem like an odd choice, given the Kingslayer is Baratheon’s uncle, but sources close to Big Brienne say the man-crazy giant has been desperate to find one to call her own_. _From the_ _poverty-stricken backwater of Evenfall, the prospect of a life of luxury is as much of a temptation as the Kingslayer’s good looks. Vulnerable and adrift after his tragic maiming while under the ironically nicknamed ‘Brienne the Beauty’s’ care, the Kingslayer had no defence against Big Brienne’s calculated assault, and from her rent-free accommodation in his sumptuous penthouse to the luxury car she drives, it looks like she’s achieved her goal … of taming the lion. Will he come to his senses before she strips his bank-account? _

There were photos, too. Long distance, of her walking around Moat Cailin castle with her coat riding up to show her thick thighs, of her effortlessly hoisting her suitcase from her car –

Through the curtains of her motel room, changing for bed, her flat chest and huge shoulders on display.

“Miss Tarth, if you don’t either open the door or answer the phone I will have to get the manager to let me in,” Pod said desperately. “Please, Miss Tarth?”

_Dad could read this. Sandor could read this. Renly could read this. _

Jaime, clearly, _had_ read it.

She picked up the phone and pressed _Jaime L_ and then the raven, feeling strangely outside her body as if she was watching someone else raise the phone to their ear.

“Wench,” Jaime said, his voice tight with strain. Outside, Pod stopped knocking. “We’ll get it down. Tyrion will sue Baelish for every fucking stag he has. Wench. Say something.”

“How did they know?” she asked, surprised by how calm she sounded. How calm she felt. “That I’m a virgin?”

“Because they just make things up. Lies, half-truths, I killed Aerys because I was bedding his wife, I got cast on _Oathkeeper_ by bedding Olenna Tyrell, I arranged for Joffrey to murder Stark because I was bedding Catelyn Tully. They don’t care what’s true, and everybody knows that, Brienne, are you listening to me? _Everybody_ knows that.”

“No they don’t.” Her voice was coming from somewhere far away. “I believed the things they said about you. Some of them.”

“And you still saved my life, and that’s what happened, not whatever shit they write. Crone’s cunt, I had to fucking trick you to get you a decent car, I know you’re not after my money, I know that you don’t stay with me because it’s fucking rent-free but because you’re my _friend_, Brienne, _my friend_.” He paused. “Say something, Brienne. _Brienne._”

“That’s why the car was so cheap.”

“Yes, I confess it, I wanted you to have a decent car with airbags that might stand a chance of working if you have an accident and I know what a pain small cars are when you’re tall, so I arranged it. And I knew you’d never take it if you knew, just like you insist on paying for half the groceries when you stay here and the reason you’re in a motel and not the five-star accommodation you deserve is because I knew you wouldn’t let me pay for it.”

“I should give it back.”

“No you – we can talk about it. Later. Brienne, are you alright? Your voice sounds funny.”

“I think I’m in shock,” Brienne said, realising it. _And you used to call yourself a law enforcement officer._

“Can you go to the door and let Podrick in?”

“I think so.” The floor, and her feet, were very far away, but she managed to walk across the room and open the door. Podrick Payne, on the other side of it, was almost in tears. “It’s alright, Pod,” Brienne remembered to say. “Nothing about this is your fault.”

Jaime told her to hand her phone over to Pod, so she did, and went to lie down on the bed, dragging the coverlet over her. Pod took her laptop and went out, coming back after a few moments without the computer but with a takeaway drink that turned out to be hot chocolate. He regarded her with worried brown eyes. “What should I do, Miss Tarth?”

The warmth, and the sugar, started to clear Brienne’s head. She managed a smile. “Nothing, Pod. Everything you’ve done is exactly right. I had a nasty shock but I’m feeling better now.”

“Can you talk to Mr Jaime again?”

Brienne nodded, and he gave her back her phone.

“Brienne?” Jaime asked.

“I’m alright,” she assured him. “I’m fine.”

“I wish I was there, shit, I _should_ be there.”

“It would be a media circus if you were.”

“Fuck them. We’d stay in your motel room and watch however many episodes of _Sunspear Vice_ you wanted and Pod would bring us meals from _Hodor’s_. Seven Hells, it kills me not to be there when you have to cope with this. What do you need? Do you want me to put out a statement, I suspect it will make it worse but I’ll do it if you want.”

“No, not if it would make it worse. What does Tyrion say?”

“Tyrion says they’re in breach of the injunction on publishing details until the verdict’s in.”

“So after it’s in everyone can say things like this?”

“I’m sorry,” Jaime said helplessly. “I wish I could say no. I think this will be the worst, though, Baelish is the lord of the seven hells. Look, I’ll talk to Joy – my agent, she doubles as my publicist now I’m not taking care of the front pages myself by falling out of bars – and maybe get a proper publicist, and ask what they think about you doing some media with me after the verdict. I’ve done everything I can to keep you out of it, but now I’ve evidently failed, so we should make sure there’s at least some truth out there, for whatever good it does.”

“Jaime, that _will _make it worse. Everyone who sees me standing besides _you_ will jump to the same conclusion that’s in that story. Maybe not about being after your money, but … about the rest of it.”

“I hate that you say that,” Jaime said tightly. “I hate that you _think_ it.”

“It’s just the truth.”

“No-one who spent five minutes with you would question why _I_ spent weeks worming my way into _your_ affections, wench. Any decent interviewer would make sure that showed. I know you think I latched on to you because poor me, the Kingslayer, everyone hates me, and fine, you think it because I say it when I’m wallowing, but it’s not. It’s not. Yes, I don’t really have friends and I never have, but I’ve been fine with that, I _was_ fine with that, until I met you. And then I thought I wouldn’t be able to stand it if you didn’t like me, because, Brienne, you are the best person I know and the most important person in the world to me apart from Tyrion, and if you were both trapped by lava or something it wouldn’t be an easy choice –”

“Why would we be trapped by _lava_?” Brienne asked in bewilderment.

“In the evil mastermind’s lair,” Jaime explained, as if it was obvious. “But look. What I’m trying to say is that you are nice, and I always thought that was an insipid word until I got to know you, and you’re good, and kind, and those are things I always used to shrug at too, but you make them a sort of … superpower, or something. Like, Brienne Tarth to the rescue brightening every day or something, because you _do_, fuck, it cheers me up just thinking of something to say to you that will make you laugh, let alone when you do. And you’re strong, and I don’t just mean you could beat me arm-wrestling, I mean you’re _strong_, the way Tyrion has always been strong and I never have, which is probably why I love you both so much. When something good happens to me you’re the first person I want to tell and when something bad happens to me you’re the first person I want to hear from. If you ever got kidnapped by merfolk pirates I would learn to scuba dive so I could rescue you. Although your father would probably take care of it before I could, which is fine, because I also like your dad, and the rest of your Tarths, and Tarth, which is where we should do the interview because fuck Baelish calling it a poverty-stricken backwater when it’s pretty much the most beautiful place I’ve seen. Brienne. Say something.”

“I haven’t been able to get a word in edgewise,” Brienne said. She felt slightly stunned by the deluge of words, and a little shaken by the urgent sincerity of his tone. “Jaime. I know you’re my friend, I mean, really. I wasn’t sure at first, I thought you maybe just needed someone right then, and you know, I was fine with that, because I did like you. Even before you did weirnet research to try and get me to.”

“I did need someone, I needed Brienne Tarth. Not some random person to be there, but _you_.”

“Anyway, you don’t need to worry that I know. I mean, you watch _Sunspear Vice_ with me.”

“You were right about that, by the way, Anus Oakheart’s character is absolutely in love with his partner. Why don’t they just get together? One of them could change jobs.” He paused. “Anyway. The point is, it’s not about you knowing, it’s about anyone who sees _me standing beside you_ knowing that I’m the lucky one, which they will the second they see you like I see you.”

The earnestness of his tone made her smile. “I’ll just arrange to get kidnapped alongside the population of Westeros, then, shall I? One by one.”

“One interview. If a publicist thinks it would be good for you.”

“I’ll think about it,” Brienne temporised. 


	51. Cersei I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime belongs to Cersei. He always has, and he always will.  
Specific chapter warning for ... Cersei. Being book Cersei.

Cersei Lannister sipped her wine and smiled. Everything was going to plan. Oh, it was a nuisance that Baelish had been forced to take the story off the _Gulltown_ _Gossip_ weirsite, and she’d been forced to listen to him whine about _damages_ and _fines_ for nearly ten minutes until she’d placated him with a promise to cover the costs – how much could they be, really? – but she’d got screengrabs of it before it disappeared. And _plenty_ of her Ravengram followers had clicked the link she’d ravened out while the story was still up, and had a lot to say about that ugly, shambling wretch who had ruined her Jaime.

He’d been cool to her for a while, after Robert and Eddard Stark, but she knew him, better than anyone did, better than he knew himself. He’d come crawling back, he would _already _have come crawling back if not for that hideous creature.

At first, it had all seemed quite harmless: after all, it wasn’t as if Cersei wanted to involve _herself_ in the disgusting details of Jaime’s maiming. Just _thinking_ about the scars he must have made her shudder. If he’d been spending all that time with some pretty little nurse, Cersei would have put a stop to it immediately, but his physiotherapist was as plump as a piglet and there was no chance of Jaime becoming attached to big, butch Brienne. He would find the woman as repulsive as Cersei herself did.

Except somehow, apparently, the thing had managed to make Jaime pity her enough to keep her around. Well, fine again, if someone else was going to be cutting up Jaime’s food for him and waiting on him in his new helplessness, better Brienne Tarth than Cersei Lannister, and better Brienne Tarth than anyone Jaime might actually like when he came to his senses.

Or so she’d thought, right up until Petyr Baelish’s unctuous voice had oozed out of the telephone. _I have something you might be interested to know …_

How exactly he’d managed to extract the footage of Jaime testifying over the weirnet he hadn’t said, and Cersei certainly hadn’t asked.

_Interested, _not particularly. _Disturbed_, yes.

Also _enraged._

_Brienne did everything she could to protect me,_ her cousin, her other self, said. _Brienne repeatedly risked her own safety to make sure I got medical attention. Brienne’s care is the only reason … Brienne’s bravery … Brienne … Brienne … Brienne …_

And his _face_ and his _voice_ when he said her name! He sounded like some love-sick fool, which he most certainly couldn’t be, except for _her_, for Cersei, the one woman who he wanted. Would _always_ want, whatever he said. 

Something had to be done. Jaime had to be made to see just exactly how wrong he was.

Petyr Baelish had been very, very helpful indeed.

Her glass was empty, and she refilled it before pulling her keyboard towards her again. _Queen@Throne_ she typed. _As if the Kingslayer would find this attractive._ She attached the image from the story of the great brute semi-nude, tiny little tits and gorilla arms on full display, and pressed _Raven_. Picking up her wine, she sat back, smiling, waiting for her army of followers to agree.

It didn’t take long for the replies to start piling up beneath her own raven.

Cersei read them, and her smile faded.

_Meera@ReedAir Brienne Tarth is an awesome fighter and a really nice person. She helped me find a trainer and she’s a great role-model. Anyone who knocks her has their head up their arse! #BrienneBlueKnight_

_Arya@Winterfell Brienne Tarth saved my life so you fucks can just fuck right the fuck off_

_Sansa@Winterfell I quit Mockingbird publications over this shit. If I was in trouble I would want Brienne to be the one looking for me. The Kingslayer is the one not good enough for HER_

_Lyanna@BearIsland I want to grow up to be Brienne Tarth and you can fight me #BrienneBlueKnight_

_Sandor@Hound fuck you fucking cunt_

_Davos@Onion Brienne Tarth is a fine person and a professional. I hope to work with her again, soon. _

_Hyle@Maidenpool Lannister is a lucky man, I’d marry her, and not just for her inheritance_

_Olenna@Highgarden anyone surprised by this has extremely limited sexual experience. _

_Jon@NightsWatch I would be proud to call Brienne Tarth a colleague [This raven is the author’s own personal opinion and does not reflect the official opinion of the Night’s Watch]_

_Ygritte@Freefolk someone should cut your throats, rip your tongues out through the hole, and make you eat them #BrienneBlueKnight_

_Jon@NightsWatch @ Ygritte@Freefolk That’s a bit impractical, love_

_Ygritte@Freefolk @ Jon@NightsWatch That was a raven, not a pm. You know nothing, Jon Snow. _

_Roslin@TheTwins I found Brienne Tarth to be professional, kind, and extremely good at her job. _

_Samwell@HornHill She’s nice. You should stop being horrible_

_Thoros@Lightlord Your raven is dark and full of errors_

_Gilly@Crastercare You people don’t know what you’re on about, trust me_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth Say that about my daughter to my face, you craven_

_ Samwell@HornHill @ Gilly@Crastercare Are you the Gilly Craster who presented last year at the conference on nerve damage in Oldtown?_

_Gilly@Crastercare @ Samwell@HornHill Yes. _

_Samwell@HornHill @ Gilly@Crastercare you were amazing. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Anyone who thinks Jaime Lannister is easy to influence hasn’t met him_

_Bronn@LannisterStokeworth I’d climb that like a tree and any man who says otherwise has a tiny dick_

_Smallgirl@spider Brienne is wonderful #BrienneBlueKnight_

_Smallboy@spider I love Brienne #BrienneBlueKnight_

_Bird@spider Brienne is the best #BrienneBlueKnight_

_Smallbird@spider Brienne is amazing #BrienneBlueKnight_

_littebird@spider Brienne Tarth is the bestest ever #BrienneBlueKnight_

_Imp@ImpsDelight I can reveal from my sources that she is the one not interested in him._

_Spider@Web Anyone tempted to credit the opinions of OP should click this link weirnet.shavedgoats_

Cersei scowled at the screen and refilled her glass. _Fine. I just need to send some more ravens. _

Quickly, she typed _Queen@Throne _and then_ doubt she needed him to save her virginity she was probably praying for them to rape her only sex she’ll ever get. _There.

Once again, a reply came quickly.

_Olenna@Highgarden I wonder if you’re the worst person on the weirnet. It’s hard to be sure, but the truly vile do stand out._

Cersei refilled her glass. _Who cares about that withered old cunt, anyway? She hasn’t been relevant since her tits started to sag, and that must have been forty years ago. _Her own raven was getting plenty of feathers from her loyal supporters, and fine, a few were piling up next to Olenna’s reply, but who cared about that? And someone calling themselves _Rose@Highgarden_ re-ravened it, probably to their three followers, and so did _Gerold@Darkstar_, but whatever, he was some nobody. In the morning, her raven would have reached everybody who mattered, and Jaime would know just how ugly and pathetic Brienne Tarth was.

Satisfied, Cersei went to bed. 


	52. Brienne XX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has friends she didn't know she had.

Brienne woke up the next morning with her phone still tucked against her ear, battery completely dead. She plugged it in and texted _Sorry I fell asleep on you_ to Jaime.

_Wench if ud fallen asleep on me I’d know it_, Jaime replied. _How r u? no nightmares?_

_I feel better. Thank you for staying on the phone with me._

_I keep telling u talking to u is not exactly a chore_, he sent back promptly. _It’s the highlight of my day. Stay offline today. Pod will get u some dvds and books or something. _

Brienne’s heart gave a little thump. _Is the story still up? Is it something else?_

_Wench trust me. _

_Jaime tell me_ she shot back.

The raven flapped for several minutes. _Social media nonsense. Some Raveneratti had an opinion. U don’t want 2 know. _

_Is it very bad?_

_Its very stupid. It’s so stupid that reading it will make u stupid enuff 2 think the Long Night had a military solution not diploatic. It will make u stupid enuff 2 think Lannisport Confidential is a good movie. It will make u stupid enuff 2 agree volantis needs 2 b remade._

Brienne laughed. _That is very stupid indeed, I had better play it safe._

_Ill call l8r. but if u need me call ill answer._

_Jaime, there is something you can do for me._

_Ne thing 4 u wench_

_Learn to spell you._

_You r very mean 2 a cripple, _Jaime replied, and Brienne smiled. 

She had a shower, ate breakfast in the motel’s café. Her appetite was slightly ruined when she realised there was a photographer with a long lens camera on the other side of the carpark and a Gold Cloak colleague’s _You eat like a trucker_ echoed in her ears. _Fine_, she told herself, _I eat like a trucker, it’s not like I’ve ever had to watch my weight_. Determinedly she finished everything on her plate, deliberately not looking towards the camera again. She lumbered back to her room, made sure the curtains were securely closed with no gaps, and curled up on the bed. _Words are wind_. Her father had always told her that when she was teased at school, and he was right. _Words are wind. _

They felt like a particularly keen wind, today. She curled up on the bed and resisted the urge to call Jaime. When Pod knocked on the door she made herself get up, and smile at him, and accept his bags branded with the logo of a local bookstore.

Then she went back to lie on the bed. It gave her a strange, blank feeling to know that somewhere out on the weirnet people who didn’t even know her had an _opinion_ about her. Part of her wanted to ignore Jaime, wanted to find out what these people who didn’t know her were saying, but she knew he was right. She knew what they’d be saying, anyway, it was nothing she didn’t think when she looked in the mirror, it was nothing she hadn’t thought a dozen times since Jaime had so patiently and persistently persuaded her that he really did want to be her real friend. _What in Westeros is a man like _that_ doing being friends with someone like _me?

Her phone squawked and she picked it up. 

“Wench,” Jaime said. “How are you?”

“A bit bewildered,” she admitted.

“So, you don’t know, but you have a lot more fans today than you had yesterday.”

“Fans?” Brienne repeated, feeling a lot more than _a bit_ bewildered.

“Mmhmm. Olenna Tyrell took issue with something someone said about you, and her granddaughter re-ravened that to her approximately eleventy-zillion followers, half of whom are teenage girls who want more than anything else to be Margaery Tyrell and half of whom are teenage boys who want nothing more than to _do_ Margaery Tyrell. And all of whom want her to approve of them.”

“I barely met Ms Tyrell and I don’t even know Margaery!”

“It’s not so much about you, I think,” Jaime said, his voice tightening. “It’s … the person who said it. Olenna and that person have been on bad terms for a while, ever since Margaery dated that person’s son and he … was less than kind, let’s say. So I’m fairly sure Olenna was weir-stalking them and seized an opportunity, and that she orchestrated Margaery’s re-raven. Anyway, you’ve been trending all night and all morning.”

“Trending?”

“Hashtag Brienne Blue Knight. I don’t advise looking at it, because there are always grumkins, but there are a _lot_ of people talking about how wonderful you are and how awful anyone who isn’t nice to you is.”

“But they don’t even know me!”

“And then someone called Meera at Reed –”

“Meera Reed, I met her on the plane.”

“Well, she ravened a link to some footage of you fighting at a faire directly at Margaery and she re-ravened _that_ and it got so many hits and feathers that I’m pretty sure the RookTube servers caught on fire. Again, don’t go check for yourself, because grumkins.” He chuckled. “You were very impressive, wench, and quite a few people think you should play the Blue Knight in a movie. There’s a weirnet petition about it and a _lot_ of Ravengram posts. Also your father has approximately a thousand times as many followers today, so if he’s really serious about improving Tarth’s infrastructure, now’s the time for him to build some momentum.”

“How do I make it stop?”

“I’m afraid you can’t,” Jaime said. “It’ll die down in a few days. Maybe even by tomorrow. And the good news is that the RookTube footage showed you fighting in a helmet and those fucking stalker photos in the story didn’t show your face too clearly, so you shouldn’t have much trouble avoiding your adoring public in person.”

“Jaime, I’m _me_. No-one needs to see my face to recognise me.”

“Trust me, wench. When people see you out of context, even if they’ve just been staring at your face on a magazine cover, they just think they know you from somewhere but they can’t place _where_.” He paused. “Anyway, I had a chat to your dad about not posting any pictures of you that showed your face, and he never had any up of you as a kid, so no need to worry about _that_, at least. I, on the other hand, will be forever haunted by Aunt Genna’s picture of me playing the Dragon Knight in a school play, aged eight. Your dad also, and I won’t do it if you say no, sent me a bunch of pictures from my visit to Tarth where your face _isn’t_ clear, and I’d like to Ravengram a few of them. I don’t have as many followers as Margaery Tyrell, but I have a few.”

“Why would you do that?” Brienne asked, confused.

“Because _my_ face is very clear in them, and it’s blindingly obvious that I’m about as happy as I’ve ever been in my entire fucking life when I’m with you, and it’s a giant middle finger to Baelish and anyone who bought the slightest teaspoon of his drivel.”

“If you think it’s a good idea,” Brienne said slowly. “I don’t know … _anything_ about how to deal with all this.”

“You ignore it,” Jaime told her. “And let _me_ deal with it. Look, I know you hate me trying to play your knight in shining armour and I promise that’s not what I’m doing. I’m sure that if I fell into a giant hole or got eaten by a kraken tomorrow, you’d read up on how to handle a social media shitstorm and get on with it. But this is something I know how to do and I _can_ do and I also have a bunch of people to work on stuff like this, so, like, can you let me do this thing I’m good at for you? Please?”

“Alright,” Brienne said, realising that she actually _didn’t_ mind that Jaime had come metaphorically riding to her virtual rescue. “Just don’t punch anyone, this time.”

“No punching,” Jaime promised her, his voice soft. “Wench, I wish I was there to give you a hug.”

Brienne wished the same, but she knew that if she said it, Jaime would be on the next plane to Moat Cailin. “It’s enough that you’re slaying the social media dragons for me.”

He laughed. “Ser Jaime Lannister, dragon-slayer, at your service. I’ll talk to you later, wench.”

Brienne pulled herself together enough to concentrate on one of the books Pod had brought her, a new commentary on Arnel’s _Mountain and Vale_. She refused to open the other, something called _Noble Knights and Wicked Wenches_ which was clearly a Jaime Lannister special instruction. An hour later Jaime texted her with screenshots of some Ravengram posts, which had clearly been doctored to remove any negative remarks. _Arya Stark, your language, gods be good! I hope your mother doesn’t know your quill-name. _She made a mental note to make sure to thank Gilly and Samwell and Davos and all the rest, and also to find out who _Lyanna@BearIsland _was and help her find a good trainer, if she was interested in fighting with a sword.

Jaime also sent her the picture he wanted to raven, which was one someone had taken during the Last Dark party. Brienne hadn’t even known it was being snapped, or she would have moved out of the way, but her back had been to the camera. She had been seated, and Jaime had been trying to coax her up to dance, and he had been right when he’d said he looked ridiculously happy – as well as absurdly handsome, which he hadn’t mentioned, being quite used to it. Brienne’s hair was in its usual terrible state, but sitting down neither her height or her bulk were quite so apparent, so she sent back _Fine, go ahead._

_15000 feathers_ Jaime sent back a little later, which was hardly a surprise – he really did look very beautiful when he smiled like that.

Someone knocked on the door. “Miss Tarth? Can I come in?” Pod asked.

“Yes, Pod.” Brienne set her book aside.

Podrick looked pale and anxious, even when Brienne gave him a reassuring smile. “Um, Miss Tarth, there’s news. About the trial.”

“A verdict?”

He shook his head, looking miserable. “A mistrial.”


	53. Tyrion IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion needs to tell Jaime a few home truths.

Jaime raked his fingers through his hair and paced back and forth in front of Tyrion’s desk. “A fucking mistrial, can’t you fix it?”

“There are limits to even my vast power and influence, brother mine,” Tyrion said. _And they are far narrower than you apparently believe. _“Even if I really was the legal wizard you seem to believe me to be, the judge has ruled. It turned out that one of the jurors follows sweet Cersei on Ravengram, read the story on the _Gulltown Gossip_ weir-site, and shared it with the others. The prosecutor was absolutely correct to argue that they may no longer be able to treat Brienne’s evidence objectively, or yours for that matter, and the judge was absolutely right to agree.”

“So, what, how long does it take? Does Brienne have to stay up there?” Jaime flung himself down in the chair across from Tyrion, which at least relieved the crick in Tyrion’s neck, if not the pain in his temples. “Crone’s cunt, she has to go through that _again_?”

“It will be weeks, if not months, and Brienne doesn’t have to stay in Moat Cailin, but Jaime, don’t you think it might be better if she _did_? Or took a vacation somewhere … remote?”

Jaime stared at his brother. “What are you talking about?” 

_Mother’s mercy. Is he still so blind? _“You know very well what I’m talking about. Cousin Cersei’s far from done. Bringing Brienne back to King’s Landing, right under Cersei’s nose, is not a kind thing to do to someone you care about.”

Jaime shrugged. “What’s she going to do, raven some nasty remarks? She’s done that already, and it backfired on her.”

“I don’t know what she’s going to do, I never know what Cersei’s going to do, that’s what worries me.” Tyrion rubbed his forehead. _Even trying to think like Cersei gives me a headache. And a strong desire to shower. _“She doesn’t operate within normal parameters. She might throw a glass of wine in Brienne’s face at a restaurant, or she might pay someone to put a bomb in her car. Either is equally possible.”

Jaime shook his head wearily. “She knows it’s over. I _told_ her, it’s over. She’s even stopped calling me.” He shrugged. “She’s moved on to some guy called Oswald. Osmund? Os-something.”

Tyrion took a deep breath. _So I have to do this after all. _He’d hoped his big brother would never have to know. _But no. _“She’s been bedding Osmund Kettleblack for years, Jaime, him and cousin Lancel for a while, and the entire cast of _Moon Boy_ for all I know.”

“No, she was always – well, she had to bed Robert, of course, but apart from that –” Jaime shook his head again. “No. For fuck’s sake, Lancel is ten years younger than we are! Cersei and me, we were in _love_ with each other, that was the whole reason –”

“Jaime you poor stupid blind fool,” Tyrion said tiredly. “Cersei never loved you.”

His brother looked down, swallowing. “I know … I mean, it was different for her, it wasn’t … exactly how I felt about her, but –”

“She _wanted_ you, but mostly she wanted to be part of what was supposed to be your golden career, and the minute that went up in smoke with the death of Aerys Targaryen she turned her attention to getting into Robert Baratheon’s pants. If you went back to her this minute and offered to marry her, she’d say no, just as she said no when you asked her when you got back to Lannisport after _Kingslayer _and _yes_, I know about that. She said no, and then she kept you dangling on a string for another sixteen years to be there when she wanted something from you and not when she didn’t.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Jaime protested. “We were meant to be together, we both knew it, it was just … father wanted her to marry Robert, you know how hard it was to refuse him when he wanted something –”

“Gods be good, Jaime. Look. I’m going to tell you the plot of a movie, and then you’re going to tell me what genre it is, alright? A handsome young man falls in love with a beautiful woman, but then he has a terrible accident or something, and his life falls apart, and the woman stops calling him and almost immediately marries someone else. But he’s still in love with her, and when she starts calling him again and telling him she loves him, he believes it. And she asks him for things, tickets to premieres or awards dinners, gifts, proof of his devotion, and he gives them to her. And she stays with her cheating, drunken husband no matter how many times her lover offers to take her away, take her anywhere, so they can be together. And he has no life of his own, because she insists he be free to be with her whenever she requires, and he’s pretty much miserable almost all of the time, although no-one much can tell except his brother. He can’t even really tell himself, probably. I mean, what genre am I talking about here, Jaime? A romance? _Really_?”

Jaime had gone quite pale. “No.”

“No. It’s more of a horror story in which the woman is eventually revealed to be a vampire.” Tyrion sighed. “I have tried to tell you, a few times, over the years, but you were so fucking unreasonable about it. I worried that you’d choose her, your true fucking love, over me if I pushed it, and then you’d have no-one at all but our cold-rolled cunt of a cousin in your life.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Jaime said instantly. “Tyrion. Never think that.”

“That’s good to know. And I was fucking glad when you finished things with her, murder apparently being the line for you, and fucking glad you stuck to it, and _beyond_ glad that you met Brienne Tarth. But clearly, given that Cersei has done her best to utterly humiliate Brienne just because she’s found out how you feel about her, Cersei hasn’t finished things with you, as far as she’s concerned. So encourage Brienne to take a holiday, preferably somewhere that doesn’t have weir-fi service. Go join her, if you’re not working. Both of you, stay out of King’s Landing, lay low, and let me work out how to deal with Cersei.”

“What are you going to do?” Jaime asked, a bit apprehensively.

“Nothing illegal,” Tyrion assured him. “I have my qualifications to worry about, remember? Can’t practice law with a conviction on my record.”


	54. Ravens III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravens, on Jaime's phone this time.

10:04 Me: don’t know if Brienne told you but we r going away 4 a bit

10:15 Future Goodfather: she did.

10:16 Me: just 2 let the Ravengram nosene calm down

10:17 Me: also wanted you 2 know I booked 2 rooms everywhere.

10:18 Me: I wd not try and creep on her

10:18 Me: Ever

10:36 Future Goodfather: Brienne is quite able to break your arm, son. I’m not worried about her virtue.

10:37 Me: she is amazingly strong.

10:37 Me: was she always? did she do sport?

10:38 Me: At school?

10:50 Future Goodfather: Rowing.

10:51 Me: bet she was incredible.

10:52 Me: She’s good at ervy thing she does

10:53 Me: you shd be rpoud of how good a dad you r

11:14 Future Goodfather: it was a lot of trial and error and luck.

11:32 Future Goodfather: do you know why this Queen@Throne dislikes Brienne so much?

11:49 Me: my fault sorry. She is kind of my stalker.

11:50 Me: I wd stop her if I cd. I hate her lying about B.

11:51 Me: Don’t tell B about what she says. It wd upset her.

11:52 Me: she has these stupid ideas about herself

11:53 Me: B I mean.

12:06 Future Goodfather: Son, that’s my daughter you’re calling stupid.

12:10 Me: no I mean, not shes stupid. But she thinks people won’t understand us being friends

12:11 Me: which is stupid

12:11 Me: she is a perfect friend

12:38 Future Goodfather: I’m glad you think so. My girl has been happier lately than for a long time.

12:39 Me: rlly y?

12:52 Future Goodfather: I think she enjoys being friends with you

12:53 Me: wow that’s great

12:53 Me: relly I make her happy?

12:54 Me: How do you know?

12:54 Me: How? Do you know?

12:55 Me: So I can do it more

13:16 Future Goodfather: Whatever you’ve been doing seems good.

13:18 Me: k can do

13:21 Me: I will take care of her don’t worry

13:22 Me: she can take care of herself ofc

13:23 Me: wd never think she couldn’t

13:47 Future Goodfather: She’s always been very independent. Her first full sentence was: Dad I can do it myself.

13:49 Me: Very Brienne.

13:50 Me: Also adorable

13:51 Me: Were her eyes always that blu?

14:16 Future Goodfather: Yes.

14:18 Me: I want to get her something nive bec of all the stuff. Wd 3 dozen roses be 2 much?

14:19 Me: I mean wd B think they were 2 much? She is funny about gifts sometimes

14:57 Future Goodfather: She hates roses.

14:58 Me: y?

15:12 Future Goodfather: asshole boy at school gave her some and then said he was doing it because she was so ugly no-one else would ever.

15:13 Me: I hope you cleaned his clock

15:45 Future Goodfather: Brienne did

15:46 Me: Good 4 her. k no roses.

16:21 Future Goodfather: her favourite colour is blue. She likes sea things, fish and seashells and starfish, things shaped like them I mean. Her favourite records are Mance Rayder.

16:22 Me: k thx I can def work with that.


	55. Brienne XXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne drives to White Harbour, and meets unexpected acquaintances ... welcome and unwelcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to say that I’m sorry to anyone whose comment I’ve missed replying to, I try to keep up but you’re all so wonderfully enthusiastic!

“Mr Jaime said I was to come with you,” Podrick said. “I’m booked on the ferry from White Harbour down to Gulltown and on a plane from there.”

“I’m sure you can change your ticket and just fly home from here, Pod,” Brienne said, for about the thousandth time, as she loaded their bags into the boot of her car. She shut it and gave the taillight an affectionate pat. _Yes, I confess it, I wanted you to have a decent car … _She should resent it, Jaime manipulating her and spending money on her that she would never have allowed had she known, but somehow Brienne couldn’t. It was just Jaime being his most Jaime-est. If their positions had been reversed … _well, no, I wouldn’t have tricked him into it, I would have just done it and he would have had to live with it, but Jaime is Jaime, and I’m me. _And it was a very comfortable car, with an excellent safety rating.

“I was looking forward to the ferry?” Pod said. “But … if you want … I can …”

“Of course I’m happy to drive you,” Brienne said immediately. “I’m not at all talking about that. I just don’t want you to be inconvenienced.”

“Then I’d like to come to White Harbour with you, please,” Pod said. “I can even do some of the driving, I have my licence.”

“That’s fine, I like driving,” Brienne said hastily, because Pod didn’t look old enough to drive and certainly hadn’t had his licence long enough to drive on northern roads in the early spring.

_Let’s go to Skagos, wench,_ Jaime had said cheerfully, as if it was a perfectly normal thing to so. _There’s a cruise from White Harbour, you can point out the merfolk on the way and then I can find the unicorns._

And … _alright?_ Why she was agreeing Brienne wasn’t entirely clear, and she really should be trying to find other work, but it wasn’t like it was going to be easy to find a job that would definitely finish before the second trial of the Brave Companions started. And she did want to go to Skagos, and she couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather go with than Jaime, despite the fact that he’d undoubtedly find evidence of unicorns in every bush and thicket.

Actually, _because_ he’d find evidence of unicorns in every bush and thicket. _Maybe if I call Tyrion he can give me some ideas about evidence I can make sure he finds._

They made good time to White Harbour, arriving well before Jaime’s seaplane was due. He’d booked a hotel – the restored Wolf’s Den, the best hotel in White Harbour, _of course_, because it was Jaime – but Brienne didn’t argue because he’d taken the penthouse suit for the both of them and Jaime could chose his own accommodation if he wanted to waste his dragons. Pod had hours to wait for his ferry, so Brienne unloaded her own bags and then drove them both to Fishfoot Yard to get something to eat. She texted Jaime to let him know she’d reached White Harbour, then her dad to remind him that she was going to be in places with spotty reception and no weir-fi for a few weeks.

_Can’t wait to c you wench_ Jaime sent back, and from her father _Have a good time and give your Jaime my regards._

As they ate their meat pies, Brienne’s eye was caught by a young man across the room. For one heart-squeezing moment she thought she recognised him. _Gods be good, he looks like Renly. _Only Renly younger than she’d ever seen him, except in photos. The same shock of thick black hair, the same fierce blue eyes, the same _size_ even, although his jaw was squarer – the man looked up, and Brienne tore her gaze away.

“So,” she said to Pod. “What are you most looking forward to about getting back to King’s Landing?”

“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar voice said. “Are you Brienne Tarth?”

Pod surged out of his seat, getting in between her and the speaker – who was the young man who looked like a younger, huskier Renly Baratheon. Brienne almost wanted to laugh, at the idea that Podrick Payne could protect her from anything she herself couldn’t handle.

She put her hand on his arm and moved him gently aside. “I am.”

A hand the size of a coal-shuttle was held out to her. “I’m Gendry Waters. Waters the Bull? I saw you fight at Blackhaven.”

“I lost that one,” Brienne said ruefully, shaking his hand.

“Your sword broke. You should try one of mine.”

“I have,” Brienne said. “Not in a tourney, but it was good. Really good.”

“I won’t pester you,” Gendry said. “But, you know. It’d be really good for my business if you’d wear my gear at the next faire. Enough for me to suit you up for free. Have you ever thought about the heavy class?”

Brienne shrugged. “Never had the dragons for it.”

Gendry looked her up and down, and not in a way that made Brienne want to curl into herself, anticipating a sneer. “You should. You have the build for it. If you raven me your measurements, I can put something together that you might find interesting.”

“Thanks,” Brienne said, meaning it, although not for the offer of armour. “I’ll think about it.”

“Let me know,” Gendry said, and went back to his table.

“Who was that?” Pod asked in a whisper. “Do you know him?”

“He’s one of the best smiths in Westeros,” Brienne said. “For age of ice and fire stuff. He fights in tourneys too, sometimes, in the melee. I’ve never met him, though.”

“He looks just like Robert Baratheon,” Pod said. “Only, you know. Young. And not dead.”

Brienne’s head jerked up. _Of course. _Robert Baratheon’s excesses had been splashed across every gossip magazine in Westeros for a generation. _Of course he looks like Renly. Renly was Robert’s brother, after all. _“It’s best not to gossip about people, Pod,” she said, and checked her watch. “Come on, we need to get you to the port.”

They had just reached her car when Podrick began to pat his pocket. “I – Miss Tarth, I’m so sorry, I think I dropped my phone –”

“Go on, then,” she told him. “We have time, go back and find it.”

He darted away, and Brienne leaned against the side of her car, disregarding the thin rain. It was still early enough in the year for the night air to have a fierce bite, especially in the north, but Brienne had dressed to account for it and the knowledge that by tomorrow, Jaime would wrap his arms around her and keep her warm enough to ignore any sea breezes warmed her further. And, alright, he would do so as a friend, and not the way she secretly wished he would, but Jaime Lannister was a friend anyone would be glad to have, fiercely loyal if occasionally intemperately so. _If I called him right now and said I needed a taxi, a driver with a limousine would be here in ten minutes_. Which was ridiculous, and one reason Brienne would never ask him for something so trivial, but it warmed her chest all the same.

“Shut the fuck up,” a man’s voice snarled, interrupting her thoughts.

At the other side of Fishfoot Yard, a girl – a girl, not a woman – was backed up against the wall by a group of men. Brienne felt her mouth go dry as dust with fear as she saw the bloody goat on the back of their jackets. _The Brave Companions. _One of them – _Mother’s mercy_ – one of them she could recognise, even from behind. _The one with the teeth._ _The one they call Biter._

_This is what _mistrial_ meant_, Brienne realised. _Bail. _

She fumbled out her phone with numb fingers, dialled 3, then 3 again, and then 7. “Hello?”

“What is your emergency?” an impossibly calm voice said at the other end of the call.

“A woman is being attacked. Fishfoot Yard. The Watch. The Watch has to come.”

“How many assailants are there?”

_Why does that fucking matter_, Brienne wanted to scream, but she swallowed it down, counted, made herself be the LEO she’d trained as. “Seven. There are seven. Please hurry.”

“Units are on their way,” the voice said.

“How long?” Brienne pleaded. “How long?”

Across the yard, a man snarled _I’ll shove that up your cunt and fuck you with it, and then I’ll pop your fucking eyes out and make you eat them. _

_No time_. Even if there was a car nearby, there was no time for the Watch to get there. _But there are seven. I can’t take seven. _At least some of them had weapons, and she was unarmed, she hadn’t carried a gun since she’d been with the Rainbow Guard – 

Except she had a sword, didn’t she? She had a Valyrian steel sword, the sword of Goldenhand the Just himself. _And what would Goldenhand, the perfect knight, do at a moment like this?_

_In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. _Brienne felt strangely weightless as she dropped her phone and went to the back of her car. _In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. _She opened the boot, punched in the code for the gun safe, and closed her hand around Oathkeeper’s hilt. _In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. _She drew the sword clear._ In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women..._

_Seven._ Even with a sword, she had no chance against seven, Brienne knew.

_No chance, and no choice._

She stepped forward into the rain, Oathkeeper in hand. “Leave her be. If you want to rape someone, try me.”


	56. Brienne XXII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No chance, and no choice. Specific chapter warning for canonical violence, if you want to skip it, you'll be able to pick up from later context.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, as with the fight between Jaime and Brienne interrupted by the Brave Companions, I have drawn far more heavily than usual on GRRM for Brienne’s Big Damn Hero Moment. Obviously, I’ve had to make changes, but almost all the below is George, not me. And, you know, chapter warning for canon-typical violence. If you want to skip it, you’ll be able to pick up on context later.

The bikers turned. One guffawed. _The one with the teeth. _“You’re even uglier than I remembered. You’d have to work to get me hard enough to rape _you_.”

“Fuck it.” One of the others moved towards Brienne and she shifted her weight to keep him in view. “Let’s cut her bloody legs off. I’ll set her up on her stumps so she can watch me fuck the other one.”

“With your tiny little cock?” Brienne taunted. She meant it to provoke him, and it did. He came charging towards her, the others waiting to watch the show. Brienne stayed still as stone, waiting. _Better to let them come to you_, Godwin had always told her when she’d been a teenager wanting to find _something_ about the age of ice and fire she could be part of, since being a lady or a damsel was impossible. _Hold your ground, let them come to you, let them underestimate you._

“What are you going to do, hit me with your toy sword?” he sneered.

She held her ground. She let him come to her. She counted down the steps as he came to her and Oathkeeper swept up to meet him. The Valyrian steel cut through his leathers as if they were paper.

He staggered, lunged after her as she twisted aside. “Whore!” he screamed. “Freak! Bitch! I'll give you to my dog to fuck, you bloody bitch!” He flailed at her with the weapon in his hand, some sort of chain and handle like a bastardised Morningstar.

Brienne had no shield to catch the blows. Any one of them would crack her skull or break her arm if it landed. All she could do was slide back away from him, darting this way and that. "Get the bitch!" one of the others called.

_Wait and watch, girl, wait and watch_, Godwin had always said. She waited, watching, moving sideways, then backwards, then sideways again, slashing now at his face, now at his legs, now at his arm. Brienne turned him so the rain was in his eyes, and stepped back two quick steps. Cursing he lurched after her –

And she leapt to meet his rush, both hands on her sword hilt. His headlong charge brought him right onto her point, and Oathkeeper punched through cloth and leather and more cloth, deep into his bowels and out his back, rasping as it scraped along his spine. His weapon fell from limp fingers, and the two of them slammed together. His weight sagged heavily against her, and all at once it was a corpse that she embraced, there in the black rain. She stepped back and let him fall.

_I killed a man. _

_I killed a man with Jaime’s magic sword. _

The others came at her, shouting. Six was still too many, but Brienne managed to turn and get her car behind her, forcing them to come at her from the front. The rain was heavier now. For a moment Brienne thought she heard a car approaching, but it was a low rumble of thunder instead. _I hope that girl has enough presence of mind to run._ A flash of lightning made Oathkeeper blaze as if on fire as Brienne slashed at a hand wielding a knife. That man cursed and backed away. No-one took his place. _They are wary now_. Would they run? Would they stay wary until the Watch arrived? She cut at another, drew blood with a slash across the chest.

And Biter crashed into her, shrieking.

He fell on her like an avalanche, lifting her off her feet and slamming her down into the ground. She landed in a puddle with a splash that sent water up her nose and into her eyes. All the air was driven out of her, and her head snapped down against the concrete with a crack. "No," was all that she had time to say before he fell on top of her. One of his hands was in her hair, pulling her head back. The other groped for her throat. Oathkeeper was gone, torn from her grasp. She had only her hands to fight him off, but when she slammed a fist into his face it was like punching a ball of wet white dough. He hissed at her.

She hit him again, again, again, smashing the heel of her hand into his eye, but he did not seem to feel her blows. She clawed at his wrists, but his grip just grew tighter, though blood ran from the gouges where she scratched him. He was crushing her, smothering her. She pushed at his shoulders to get him off her, but he was heavy as a horse, impossible to move. When she tried to knee him in the groin, all she did was drive her knee into his belly.

Biter hissed again, louder than before, and let go of her throat just long enough to smash her in the face. The pain blinded her for an instant. When she tried to hit him again, he slammed a knee down onto her forearm, breaking it. Then he seized her head again and resumed trying to tear it off her shoulders.

Between the claps of thunder she heard the clash of steel on steel. _The Watch_, she thought, _the crows have joined the fight_, but all that seemed far away and unimportant. Her world was no larger than the hands at her throat and the face that loomed above her.

Brienne's chest was burning, and the storm was behind her eyes, blinding her. Bones ground against each other inside of her. Biter's mouth gaped open, impossibly wide. She saw his teeth, yellow and crooked, filed into points. When they closed on the soft meat of her cheek, she hardly felt it. She could feel herself spiralling down into the dark. _I can’t die yet_, she told herself, _there is something I still need to do_.

_Jaime will be waiting at the dock for me. _

She had no strength left to fight any longer. She felt as if she were floating above herself, watching the horror as if it were happening to some other woman, to some stupid girl who thought she was a knight. _It will be finished soon_, she told herself. Biter threw back his head and opened his mouth again, howling, and stuck his tongue out at her. It was sharply pointed, dripping blood, longer than any tongue should be. Sliding from his mouth, out and out and out, red and wet and glistening, it made a hideous sight, obscene. _His tongue is a foot long_, Brienne thought, just before the darkness took her. _Why, it looks almost like a sword._


	57. Brienne XXIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If she was dreaming, why did it hurt so much?

_This is an evil dream,_ Brienne thought. But if she was dreaming, why did it hurt so much?

The rain was heavier. Her face was wet with rain and wet with blood. Every breath hurt. Things were broken inside her.

There were black shadows all around her. _My sword. I need my sword_. When she tried to speak her mouth was full of blood.

“Miss Tarth? Miss Tarth?” That was Pod, somewhere beyond the shadows. His voice was shaking with fear. _He needs me. I promised to look after him. I promised Jaime. _“Miss Tarth?”

She tried to rise but hands held her down. The effort at movement sent a throb of agony through her arm. Someone was telling her to be still. _My sword. I can’t protect Pod without my magic sword. I can’t save the girl without Jaime’s sword._ Hands were on her, moving her, and it hurt, how it hurt – a needle in her arm and she was going down again, down and down …

She was in the Brave Companion’s hideout, shoved to her hands and knees in front of Vargo Hoat once again. Jaime was there, hands dragged out before him. It was just how it had been, except this time Hoat held a sickle-shaped sword, not a crowbar. _No. No._ Jon Snow was there, expressionless, older – not Snow, his name wasn’t Snow, it was Eddard Stark standing there with blood blooming on his face – “Help me,” she begged him. “I have to save him. I need my sword. Oathkeeper. Please.”

“Kingslayer,” Stark said, and turned away, revealing the ruin at the back of his head where Joffrey Baratheon’s bullet had torn its way out. Biter grabbed Brienne’s arm and yanked her close and tore a chunk from her face. "Jaime," she heard herself scream, "Jaime."

Hoat brought the sword whistling down and Jaime’s screams joined hers.

A ceiling above her, close, moving. Bright lights. Someone talking in a northern accent, and Pod, Pod was crying and crying. She tried to get up but she was strapped down.

“I need my sword,” she said. “Please, I need Oathkeeper.”

“Everything’s alright now,” someone told her, but how could it be when she didn’t have her sword?

Then she was back at Rosby, standing in Hyle’s trailer. Somehow he was bigger and bulkier than she remembered and when he smiled she saw his teeth were filed to points. “No,” she cried as he reached for her. She reached for her sword but her hand was empty and she remembered that she had lost it, lost Jaime’s sword. "My sword. Please, I have to find my sword. Jaime says it’s Oathkeeper. Please." Hyle ignored her, his teeth tearing her face. “Jaime, Jaime!” she screamed.

Brienne spiralled down into a deeper darkness.

This time she dreamed she was at the Baelor again, a discreet distance from Renly Baratheon. “That’s my nephew,” Renly said, and Brienne turned and saw Joffrey, saw the gun – _if only I had my sword_ – she was too far away, there was nothing she could do and she screamed as Joffrey raised the gun and shot Jaime in the face and he was falling, falling, and she couldn’t reach him, couldn’t catch him – “Jaime , Jaime, Jaime!”

“You’ll have to stay here,” someone said and Brienne opened her eyes to find herself floating along a hospital corridor. She didn’t hurt any more, she couldn’t feel anything.

“I’m not supposed to leave her!” Pod said desperately. “I’m not supposed to leave her!”

“Wait here, please.”

This time she dreamed that she was home again, at Evenfall. Through the windows of her lord father's kitchen she could see the sun just going down. _I was safe here. I was safe. _Jaime put his arms around her from behind, but it felt wrong, it felt different, and she turned and it was Rod Connington grinning at her with sharp teeth. “Hot date, butch?” he asked and then sank his teeth into her face. She couldn’t fight him off – she’d lost her sword, her magic sword, she’d lost Oathkeeper – “Jaime!” she could hear herself screaming as she sank into darkness. “Jaime!”

Someone was shouting. _Jaime_. Jaime was shouting, Jaime needed her, Hoat had a sword but Brienne had lost hers, had lost Jaime’s Oathkeeper – _I am still dreaming,_ she realised. _I have to wake up. _But she was going down again, helplessly, and Jaime … Jaime …

The dreams blurred into each other, Hyle, the Brave Companions, rain, everywhere it was raining, and then she realised it was blood showering over her, Jaime’s blood, she had not protected him, they had broken his hand, they had taken his hand, if she hadn’t lost Oathkeeper she could have stopped them, Oathkeeper, she had to find Oathkeeper. “My sword,” she pleaded to the figures moving around her. “I need my sword, please, Jaime, Jaime gave it to me.” And where was Pod? And the girl? How could she protect them without her sword? How could she have lost it, lost Jaime’s Oathkeeper?

“It’s not lost,” Jaime told her, sounding close but she couldn’t find him, no matter how she searched. “Brienne? It’s not lost, Brienne, the Watch have it.”

“Jaime,” she called, trying to find him. “Jaime!”

“Get the maester back,” Jaime told her, which made no sense because there was no maester, there was Biter, on top of her, crushing her, eating her. Behind him she could see Jaime and as Biter lifted his head and revealed her ravaged face, Jaime shook his head and turned away in disgust. _Jaime, come back, come back for me_, she tried to call. _Jaime. I’m sorry I lost Oathkeeper. Jaime. Forgive me. Don’t leave me here!_

“It’s alright, sweetling,” her father’s deep voice said. His big hand was on her forehead. “You’re safe now.” But how could she be safe without her sword? She had to find it, she had to find Oathkeeper, Jaime had given it to her, it was Jaime’s sword, and she had lost it, she had been so stupid and careless as to lose it – she was searching in a forest for it, tripping over roots and rocks, stumbling, blind in the dark, feeling along the ground – it must be here, it had to be here, she had to find it, for Jaime –

“We need to transfer her to a better-equipped facility,” someone said.

“Moat Cailin?” That was Jaime. _Jaime, Jaime!_

“I’d recommend the Quiet Isle Hospital. They have the best reputation for antibiotic resistant infections like this.”

“Isn’t it a Faith-run place?” her father asked. “Wouldn’t a proper hospital be better?”

“_Gods_,” Jaime said, his voice ragged. “Selwyn. Do what they say, _please._ _Look_ at her!”

_Jaime … _something was wrong_ … Jaime … _If she was dying, she couldn’t die yet. Jaime needed her. She had to find Oathkeeper for him. She had to … had to …

She was moving, she was rising into the air. _Is this death? Is this what dying feels like, in the end?_ And then her stomach dropped away and she was spinning and falling, falling –

A large hand rested on her forehead, and Brienne opened her eyes to see a man leaning over her. He had a large, square head, a heavy jaw, and shrewd eyes. “You will be alright now, child. Sleep.”

Brienne did.

When she woke, the first thing she realised was that she did not hurt so much. Her arm still ached, and her ribs, but it was an old ache, subdued. _I have been asleep a while_. The next was that there was a warm body pressed against her side. She did not need to open her eyes to know that it was Jaime. His arm was around her waist, one ankle was hooked around hers, and his forehead rested against her cheek. She could feel his breath, warm on her neck. For a moment she almost thought it had all been a dream, Moat Cailin, the trial, White Harbour, the fight – but no, her arm and her ribs told her that it wasn’t, and she could feel a tightness in her cheek.

She opened her eyes. She was in a hospital room, although a strangely homey one. The walls were curved, not straight – there were no corners – and when she lifted her head a little she could see the whole room was painted in the same warm shade of pale yellow. Although there was a drip-stand by her bed and she could glimpse medical monitors, the rest of the furniture she could see would not have looked out of place in a holiday house or beach bar.

“Jaime?” she said softly. Her voice was rusty with disuse.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Jaime murmured, not stirring. “I’m here, Brienne, you’re safe.”

“I can see that,” she said, and his eyes opened.

“Brienne,” he breathed. “You’re awake.” He raised himself on his elbow and studied her face.

She studied him in turn. He looked exhausted, almost ill with it, dark shadows beneath his eyes and new lines around them. His beard had reached what Jaime always called _Brotherhood Without Banners_ status and his hair had grown to brush his collar. _I shouldn’t have woken him. _But she needed to know, before she told him to go back to sleep. “Pod?” she asked. “The girl?”

“Your dad took Pod to get some food a little while ago. The girl?”

“The one in the rain.”

“At White Harbour?” Brienne nodded. Jaime smiled. “Willa Manderly. She’s fine. Oh, Brienne.” He kissed her cheek, so lightly she barely felt it. “You’re so much cooler, thank the Seven. I have to go and tell the Brothers you’re awake. And your dad, and Pod.”

“Mmm.” Brienne felt as if she might just go to sleep again and let him sort it out.

“But before I do, there’s something you need to know.” He took her left hand in a tender grip, and raised it before her face. There was a ring, a golden ring, on her third finger, a ring she had never seen before. “We’re married.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that there are no wedding rings in canon Westeros, but that last paragraph was too good to resist.


	58. Brienne XXIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Brienne gaped at him. “What?”

“It’s the only way they’d let me stay,” Jaime said, and like always, he made the most absurd nonsense sound as if it were perfectly reasonable. “We’re on the Quiet Isle, and this place is run by the Faith. The only way I could be here outside visiting hours was to marry you.”

“You … pretended we were married so you could stay with me?”

He shook his head. “Not pretended. I mean, there are records, they checked when we got here. That’s why they wanted to throw me out. So I actually married you.”

“Jaime, I think I would have remembered marrying you,” Brienne said as calmly as she could. _Either he’s insane, or I am. _

Jaime squeezed her fingers. “You were pretty ill at the time. Tyrion found a loophole, a statute that’s some hundreds and hundreds of years old but technically unrepealed. A father can give consent on behalf of their child. So Selwyn consented on your behalf, and the Septon said the words –”

Brienne stared at him. “_Dad_ agreed to this?”

“Brienne, you were so sick. And you were having awful dreams, fever dreams, calling for Oathkeeper, calling for me. The only time you seemed the least bit calm was when I held you. Of course your dad agreed, do you think he wanted to spend the night sitting helplessly by your bedside while you screamed and screamed?” Jaime kissed her cheek gently. “I mean, obviously he understands that I’m not going to carry you off somewhere and insist on my marital rights, that I’m here as your friend.”

“Biter,” she remembered. “They were all Biter. I couldn’t fight them without your sword.”

“Biter’s dead,” Jaime said.

Brienne nodded. “The Watch killed him. I remember that.”

“No, Gendry Waters did. He picked up Oathkeeper and pushed it through the back of that asshole’s neck. It would do wonders for my future peace of mind if you’d promise to bow out if you ever find yourself facing him at a faire. I don’t like the idea of anyone strong enough to do that hitting you.”

“I killed someone.” She could remember that too, his lunge, her thrust, the sudden dead weight of him against her. “I killed a man.”

Jaime stroked her hair. “He was trying to kill you. So were the others you hurt.”

“I couldn’t have done it without your sword.”

“Brienne.” Jaime kissed her cheek again. “It’s _yours_. It will always be yours.”

“But I lost it.” She wanted to cry. “I’m so sorry, Jaime, I lost it.”

“No, no, no,” he said quickly. “It’s locked up with the Night’s Watch, that’s all. Everyone’s quite clear that it’s self-defence but until you’re well enough to talk to them, they have to hold on to it.”

“It’s safe?” And now she _was_ crying, with relief.

“Safe as castles,” Jaime said, wiping away her tears with his fingers.

“And Pod’s alright?”

“He is, although he quit his job in an excess of guilt, so we’ll have to find him something else to do.”

“Guilt?” Brienne frowned. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I might have been a little fucking fraught when I arrived in White Harbour to find you beaten half to death, raving in delirium and all alone in the hospital. By the time I calmed down and apologised, he’d already quit by weir-mail. Tyrion will take him back, of course, but Pod’s convinced himself he’s the worst intern alive. Brienne.” Jaime kissed her cheek, and then her temple. “Seven Hells, wench, I’m so glad you’re back.” He sighed. “I have to go and tell people you’re awake. Don’t forget we’re married while I’m gone.”

_Married._ Brienne had almost forgotten, until he said it. She held up her hand again and looked at the ring as Jaime slipped from the room. _Surely this can’t really be legal, whatever Tyrion says. It’s not 300 AC. _It definitely couldn’t be binding, without a bedding. Not that many people went in for the whole old-fashioned bedding ceremony, but consummation was required, she was certain.

_Seven Hells, the tabloids are going to have a field day with this if they find out! _And they probably would find out – Jaime was right, marriages were formally recorded, sooner or later someone would think to look, just to check if Jaime Lannister had one more wight in his closet. _At least they can’t accuse me of trapping him, given I didn’t know anything about it. _They might make that insinuation about her father, though.

_I would have done the same_. If Jaime had been hurt and ill and calling for her, Brienne would have done anything she needed to do to be there for him, would have become a Septa or even a Silent Sister if necessary. _I would have done anything, and dealt with the consequences later_. Perhaps she could make sure there were no consequences for Jaime. Not that anyone would necessarily believe that a woman who looked like her could find someone to cheat on her husband with, but if she racked her brain she might be able to think of a plan.

“Sweetling!” her father boomed, hurrying into the room. Behind him, she saw Pod peering through the doorway. “How are you feeling?”

“Still a little sore,” Brienne admitted. “Tired.” She touched her right cheek, the bandage smooth beneath her fingers. “How bad is it, Dad?”

“You’ll have a scar,” he said.

Brienne made herself smile. “Good thing I was never a beauty. Pod. What’s this I hear about you resigning from your job?”

Pod came a little closer. He looked almost on the edge of tears. “I’m so sorry, Miss Tarth. I should never have left you. I wanted to help, but … I can’t fight, I’ve never been good at it, and Willa’s leg was hurt, and I couldn’t just _leave_ her.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Brienne agreed. “Was it you who got Gendry?”

He nodded. “I ran back inside and shouted they should call the Watch and he came out after me.”

“Then you probably saved my life,” Brienne said. “So thank you.”

“Mr Jaime said –”

“Mr Jaime was not in his right mind at the time,” Jaime said from the doorway. “Mr Jaime is very embarrassed about it, in retrospect, and Mr Jaime would take it kindly if you’d erase it from your memory. Brienne, the Elder Brother is here.”

It was the man she’d seen before, the one who’d told her she’d be alright. He shoed the others out of the room, closed the door and looked at the monitors by Brienne’s bed for a moment, then sat down next to her and took her left hand in both his. “Good. You’re mending.”

“How long has it been?”

“Nearly four weeks. The Seven only know what that creature that bit you had been eating, but his mouth must have been filthy. The others told me what happened, your father and your husband.” He smiled. “That must have been a surprise, to wake up and find yourself married.”

Brienne blinked. “You knew?”

He nodded. “Of course, I found the Septon for them, my friend Meribald. Since no cloaks were exchanged, you can be free of the marriage as soon as you take the ring off. I hope you will wait until you are healed, though, I wouldn’t enjoy insisting your husband leave each night.”

“He didn’t mean any disrespect by it,” Brienne hurried to assure him. “Jaime’s … he doesn’t always think things through. And he gets a lot of his ideas about life from movies. But –”

“But you needed him with you, very badly, while you were lost in your fever, and he loves you, very deeply.”

“Jaime and I are friends.”

The Elder Brother’s eyes glinted a little as he smiled. “So that’s what the young people are calling it these days?” He gave her hand a pat, and let it go. “You should rest, and later you should eat a little, and rest again.”

Brienne nodded. _Jaime loving me_. The idea was ridiculous. It was extraordinary enough that she was friends with him, that he was friends with her, the kind of friend she’d never had in her life. Someone who would swear to rescue her from merfolk pirates and absolutely mean it, who’d watch television he hated because it was her favourite show, who’d mean it when he said he spent the day looking forward to talking to her on the phone.

“What did he say?” Jaime asked, startling her from her thoughts.

She smiled, although it pulled at her cheek. “That I’m to rest, and that you’ve been a very good friend to me while I’ve been here.”

He sat down beside the bed and took her hand. “Wench, I deserve no credit for it. It would have been far harder _not_ to be here.”

“Jaime, can you be honest about something for me?”

“That depends,” he said quite cheerfully. “I fully intend to lie through my teeth if you ask me whether I’ve managed to keep up with my physiotherapy these past few weeks.”

“Dad says I’ll have a scar,” Brienne said, and Jaime sobered. “Is it … how bad is it?”

“You might want to have it revised, at some point,” Jaime said. “And we’ll take care of that when the time comes. That asshole … remind me to do something extra nice for Gendry Waters, like buy him a house or something.”

Brienne nodded. _It’s not like I was ever a beauty, it’s not like I was ever a beauty … _but being ugly and being so hideous people would stare … She would get used to it, in time, it would just be her face. It wasn’t anything important, after all, not like Jaime’s hand.

“Listen, it’s not anything important,” Jaime said, echoing her thoughts. “The maesters at White Harbour said there wasn’t any nerve damage, that it was just superficial. It’ll be red for a while, and then get paler, until you won’t really notice it. Like my hand. You’ll still have that same goofy smile when you see a kid doing something cute. You’ll still get the same crinkles at the corners of your amazing eyes when I’m trying to make you laugh and you’re trying to be disapproving of my nonsense. You’ll still have the same laugh, and the same scowl when I point out what a terrible actor Arys Dumbheart is – there it is.” He smiled at her. “Your eyes will still turn the same soft shade of blue when you’re happy, you’ll still chew your lip when you’re reading something really interesting in the exact same way you always have, everything that’s important is just the same. Your ribs, your arm – they’ll heal. You’ll be back training before you know it, and you’ll get strong again, and you’ll beat all comers at the next tourney. It’s just a scar, and if anyone asks about it, you can tell them you got it making the Blue Knight herself look like a fucking amateur in the hero stakes. Gods be good, Brienne! Not that I’m remotely surprised, because you’re _you_, but you took on half-a-dozen men by yourself to save a girl you didn’t even know. And you _saved_ her.”

“It was the sword,” Brienne protested.

“It was _you_, you gorgeous blonde giant idiot, Crone’s cunt, do you think _I_ don’t know how much work it takes to be as good as you are? Do you think _I_ don’t know how much courage it took? How much strength? Maybe I can’t do anything about all those patch-faced fools who think less of anyone who doesn’t look like everybody else and whatever nonsense they’ve said to you, but Seven Hells, wench, no-one alive could deny you’re brave and strong and skilled as well as kind and good. So don’t give me any more rubbish about _it was the sword_. It was Brienne Tarth. If they still gave out knighthoods you’d be at the head of the line and if they still had a Kingsguard you’d be Lord Commander.” She snorted at the idea, and Jaime smiled. “And I’d be your lady wife, at least until you tire of me and take the ring off.”

“The Elder Brother said I should wait until I was better. He said he didn’t look forward to having to throw you out of my room at night.”

“Not least because I meant when I told him he’d better bring friends,” Jaime said. He paused, thumb tracing the ring. “Maybe you should keep it on a while longer after that. I mean, why not get a honeymoon out of it?”

“Jaime, you’re impossible.”

“We could go somewhere really warm, like Dorne or Lys or the Summer Islands.”

“Jaime.”

“Get a honeymoon suite with endless bottles of champagne and medium rare steaks and all the fruits that don’t grow on Tarth.”

“Jaime!”

“Complete box set of every season of _Sunspear Vice._ A tour of the set, if we’re in Dorne. You can have your photo taken with Arys Blockhead.”

Brienne couldn’t keep from laughing. “Jaime, honeymoons are for people in love.”

“Do they have to be?” Jaime asked.

He looked so sad that Brienne couldn’t even be sorry that the Elder Brother had been wrong. “I think yes,” she said gently, squeezing his fingers.

“Well, since we’re not in love with each other, thank the Seven, perhaps we could go on a non-honeymoon together? To Dorne, and stay in a non-honeymoon suite and drink champagne and eat every kind of food you like and watch _Sunspear Vice_ until even _you_ are sick of the sight of Anus Oakheart?” _Thank the Seven. _That did hurt, and she had to look away from his beautiful face. “Brienne? It doesn’t have to be champagne, if you don’t like it.”

“Would it be so bad?” she whispered before she even thought. “To be in love with me?”

“You’ve never been in love,” Jaime said ruefully. “Or you’d know it’s not something to wish on anyone, let alone yourself. I know you think I don’t know much but movies, but I do know what it’s like to be in love, and it’s absolutely no fun, believe me. A lot of the time it’s miserable. You do things … tell yourself things … because the other person needs you to be a certain way, and you love them, so you change yourself for them, and you try to like it … the movies make it look like being friends but better, but it’s nowhere near what we have. Nowhere near.”

That didn’t sound right, to Brienne. _I love Jaime, and maybe sometimes it hurts a bit because he’ll never love me back, but I wouldn’t describe it as _miserable_. Do I try and change myself for him? _She had a bit when she’d had a crush on Renly, she supposed, taken care with her hair and tried make-up, but Jaime never made her feel like there was something wrong with how she looked. _Even now. _“I guess … I do only know from the movies,” she said slowly. “I haven’t ever been in love with someone who loved me back.”

“Well, neither have I,” Jaime said, “although I didn’t know it at the time.”

“She didn’t love you? Or he?”

“She didn’t, although she persuaded me she did.” He lifted her hand a little and brushed a kiss across her fingers. “You said you’re ordered to rest. So rest.”

“Will you stay?”

He grinned at her. “Try and stop me.”

Brienne nodded, and closed her eyes. _Even thinking the person you loved, loved you back … even if you found out it wasn’t true … wouldn’t that early bit be good, anyway? How can being in love be miserable? How can that be love? _Jaime might not love her, but he would sleep in a hospital bed with her for weeks to make sure she was alright, and that made Brienne feel warm all over. Wouldn’t it be even better if he loved her? How could that be anything but wonderful? _And he looked so sad._ “Jaime?”

“Yes, wench?”

“Maybe we should go on a non-honeymoon, when I’m out of here.”

“Dorne? Lys? Somewhere else?”

“You choose. Somewhere cheap, though.”

He laughed, and kissed her fingers again. “Brienne Tarth price-range non-honeymoon, got it. I’ll make the arrangements. Leave it to me.”


	59. Tyrion V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Night's Watch has some questions for Brienne.

“Before we start, I have a few ground rules,” Tyrion said firmly to the sombre young man who looked so uncannily like the late Eddard Stark, despite the unrelieved black of his Night’s Watch uniform. “First, my client is not under arrest nor under caution. Nothing she says, or refuses to say, can be used against her in any legal proceedings. Secondly, if she becomes unwell or distressed, or if _I_ think she’s becoming unwell or distressed, you’ll stop immediately. Thirdly, her father Selwyn Tarth will be present as well, and if _he_ wants you to stop, you will.”

“Agreed,” Commander Jon Snow said, and gods be good, he even sounded like Ned Stark.

“Are you … is there a possibility that Eddard Stark is your father?” Tyrion asked. _I’d love to get a piece of _that_ paternity suit. _

That did get a small smile from the stern young man. “I hope not. My mum was his sister.”

“Then … forgive me, but how is it that you’re _Snow_ and not _Stark_ or … ?”

“My dad was married to someone else at the time,” Snow said. “It was all very messy.” He inclined his head at the door. “Shall we?”

Tyrion restrained his curiosity with an effort. “Yes, of course.”

Brienne Tarth looked better than Tyrion had expected from Jaime’s half-hysterical phone calls from White Harbour _fuck Tyrion they half-killed her, tore up her face, they won’t let me in and she’s _dying_ in there. _Her arm was in a cast, and there was a fresh red circular scar on her right cheek like a dog-bite, but she was sitting up in bed and gave them both a smile when they came in. “Tyrion. And Commander Snow, I’m glad it’s you.”

“I’m the only one with rank to be trusted to transport _this_,” Snow said, and laid a long, thin package on the bed.

Brienne touched it. She was still wearing Jaime’s ring, Tyrion noted. Jaime, on the phone, voice cracking, _Tyrion, they’re kicking me out, you have to do something, I’m going to fucking kill someone in about ten minutes, _do_ something!_ “Oathkeeper. Thank you.”

“I’ve got a couple of formalities to conclude before we can close the file,” Snow said. “Can I sit?”

“Of course.”

Selwyn took his daughter’s hand. “You don’t have to do this yet, sweetling, if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“I’d rather get it over with,” Brienne said.

“So, our records show that you placed a three-three-seven call …”

Snow took her through the events of the night, and he was good at his job, Tyrion had to admit, not leading her, not badgering her, prefacing every question with a check of her comfort level _if it’s alright with you, I’d like to hear _… _if you feel like saying, what …_

Brienne gave him a clear, concise account, saying what she remembered and what she didn’t, one hand holding her father’s and the other on the hilt of her sword. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember anything else,” she said at last.

“That’s fine.” Snow closed his notebook. “The CCTV footage was pretty clear about how it happened, and we’ve already interviewed Willa Manderly and Gendry Waters.”

“How are they doing?” Brienne asked. “I mean, if you can tell me.”

“Willa has a broken leg, but she’s mending fine. Waters wasn’t hurt, but he was a bit shaken.” Snow gave his small smile. “Killing people on a tourney field and killing people for real is a bit different, I guess.”

“Yes,” Brienne said, and swallowed hard.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think there was anything else you could have done,” Snow offered. “Apart from lock yourself in your car or run away.”

“I could have done what Pod did, and raise the alarm.”

Snow shook his head. “They were between you and the pub, maybe you don’t remember. And Gendry was the only one brave enough to do more than wait for the Watch to sort it, anyway. Two against seven, it would have still come to killing.”

“Will I have to testify?”

“Plea agreements,” Snow said succinctly. “Like I said, the CCTV was pretty clear. Even the Brave Companions aren’t stupid enough to want to go to trial when they’ve been caught on camera attacking a woman seven to one. The prosecutor came to an agreement with most of the surviving members of the gang, and we’re getting Qyburn for his role acting as a vet for a dog-fighting ring we broke up last week, so you won’t have to testify at a retrial, either.” He put his notebook away, and took a card from his pocket, putting it on the bed beside Oathkeeper. “This has all my numbers. If you want to talk about it, to someone who’s been there too, call any time. And Ygritte and Ghost send their best.”

Brienne smiled. “My best to them, too. And to your cousins, if you see them.”

“Will do,” Snow said, shook hands with all of them, and took himself off. 

“That’s an impressive young man,” Selwyn said. “Not as impressive as my girl, of course.”

Brienne laughed. “Dad. You’re a bit biased.”

“I’m going to find Jaime,” Tyrion said, “and tell him he’s allowed to come back. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, call me at once.” He took out a card and handed it to Selwyn Tarth. “You as well, Mr Tarth. I gathered enough from Jaime to know he’s been driving you insane.”

Selwyn chuckled, and took the card. “I’m not going to argue with that, but I won’t hold it against the boy that he cares about my Brienne.”

“He certainly does that,” Tyrion agreed.

He found Jaime in the hospital garden, pacing. He looked better than he had when Tyrion had been here a week ago – he’d trimmed his beard, for one thing, and no longer looked like he spent nights sleeping in the Kingswood – but he still looked as if he could use about a week’s sleep. “Was it alright? Is she alright?” he asked the second he saw Tyrion, almost vibrating with tension. “Did Snow give her a hard time? Is she upset –”

“Jaime, she’s fine, Snow was extremely gentle, the Watch has decided it’s clear-cut self-defence, _calm down_.” _Thank the Seven he wasn’t allowed to be in the room._ “Sit down for a minute, you’re giving me a crick in my neck.”

“Sorry,” Jaime said immediately, and sank down on the nearest bench. “Thank you. For coming here, and taking care of her. And for –” He waved a hand. “Well, everything. The rest of it.”

“I noticed she’s still wearing the ring,” Tyrion said carefully.

Jaime nodded. “So I can stay with her. She’s not having the nightmares anymore, I think the counselling’s helping, but she sleeps better when I’m there.”

“Ah. And how long does she have to stay here?”

“Another week. Then the cast will be off, too, so we’re going to go to Dorne for a bit. So she can rest up a bit, get her strength up.” He shook his head with a slightly bemused grin. “I still can’t quite believe it, I mean, gods be good, she actually took on seven men with nothing more than an antique sword, she fucking saved a damsel in distress, is there a way to resurrect knighthoods, do you think? Could you find out? Because she absolutely is a knight, I mean, a _real_ knight, I always thought the stories were eighty percent aurochshit and twenty percent aspiration once I grew out of believing them, but Brienne –”

“Jaime, take a breath,” Tyrion advised. “I will see if there’s some obscure precent for Brienne becoming an actual formal _Ser, _if you want, but don’t get your hopes up.”

Jaime smiled, sweet and happy as the boy he’d used to be. “Thanks, Tyrion. I owe you. Again. Still. More.”

“Repay me by taking your heroic giant to Dorne, taking care of her, and weirmailing me some pictures of the two of you enjoying yourselves,” Tyrion said. He put his hand on Jaime’s arm. “And you rest up a bit, too, Jaime, alright? Gods be good, you’ve been _living_ in this hospital, you could use some sun and fresh air yourself.”


	60. Jaime XXIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime takes his wench to Dorne on what is definitely not a honeymoon.

His wench would undoubtedly give him a _look_ if he offered to help her out of the car, so Jaime contented himself with carrying both their suitcases and watching out of the corner of his eye in case she swayed or stumbled.

_She’s gotten thin._ Not fashion-model or actress thin, because Brienne’s sturdy frame would never allow her to be _that_, but her clothes were loose and her cheeks were slightly hollow. The wound left by Biter had healed, but the circular scar was still pink and raised. _It’s not as bad as I thought_, Brienne had said in surprise when the bandage had been removed and she’d insisted on a mirror.

_In my dreams he was eating me._

Jaime really did need to remember to buy Gendry Waters that house.

_A few weeks doing nothing and eating the finest food Sunspear has to offer will be good for both of us._

Brienne raised her eyes to the hotel and stopped dead. “Jaime. This is the Sandship Hotel.”

“Yes?” he said innocently.

“I told you somewhere cheap.”

“I got a great deal.”

Brienne sighed. “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

“Technically …?”

Brienne glared at him, but her eyes were crinkled at the corners, and Jaime relaxed.

Now he no longer had to pretend they were staying somewhere budget, Jaime put the suitcases down for a bellhop to fetch, and moved to Brienne’s side. “I did get a great deal.” He put his arm around her waist. “The non-honeymoon suite was booked by Mance Rayder and Dalla Wildling but Mance decided he’d rather spend his first days of married life somewhere more spiritual, and cancelled to go to the Isle of Faces instead.”

“Are there even hotels on the Isle of Faces?” Brienne asked.

“You know Mance, he probably picked it precisely because there are no hotels and they can spend their honeymoon in a tent and having sex up against all the weirwood trees.” He leaned up to kiss her cheek. “Anyway, I got a great rate. I mean, it’s not a budget hotel with eighteen-wheelers roaring past on the highway just past the window … I’m sure we can find somewhere like that in the Shadow City, if you prefer.”

Brienne sighed. “You just spend so much money. All the time.”

“Because I have so much money. And besides, I have a new job to celebrate. A decent one. Let’s check in and I’ll tell you all about it.”

He got her upstairs and settled on the couch – the travel hadn’t left her looking too tired – and ordered a fruit platter and sweet cold tea from room service while he unpacked for them both. Brienne’s toiletry bag he tossed straight back into her suitcase: no-one should have to tolerate Edgerton’s own-brand soap and Jaime had been subjected to many a tirade by hair-dressers on the evils of 2-in-1 shampoos. _She can use mine._

“Are you coddling me?” Brienne asked.

“Yes,” Jaime admitted cheerfully. “That’s what a non-husband does to his non-wife on their non-honeymoon.”

Brienne snorted, but she curled up on the couch and didn’t argue. Jaime let room service in, tipped the waiter, and set everything out within Brienne’s easy reach.

She picked up a piece of orange and ate it. “You were going to tell me about your job.” 

Jaime sat down beside her. He put his arm around her shoulder and she leaned against him with a sigh. “It’s called _Once Upon A Time In Dorne._ I play the sidekick – the hero’s sidekick. And I don’t die until the last ten minutes.”

“What’s it about?”

“Good guys who are bad guys and bad guys who are good guys.”

“Sounds right up your alley.”

Jaime chuckled. “Well, I don’t kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it and I die saving the hero’s life. It’s best role I’ve had in ages. And it’s not a historical, so it doesn’t matter about my hand. All I have to do is hold a gun in my left hand, point it where it’s needed for the camera, and they’ll add the effects in post.”

“Mmm,” Brienne said, a little sleepily.

Jaime raised his hand to smooth over her hair, and then drew her head down to his shoulder. “You don’t have to watch it, when it comes out.”

“Of course I’ll watch it.”

“It’s the kind of film you hate.”

“I’ll broaden my horizons.”

Jaime smiled. “I won’t hold it against you if you fall asleep.”

Brienne shifted a little, nestling against him. “Jaime. I think I am.”

“I mean when you’re watching the movie. Right now, I think you _should_ go to sleep.”

“Alright,” Brienne said, and sighed, and went limp. 

Jaime gathered her close to him, and turned his head to look out the window at the city of Sunspear, spread out below them. He wasn’t tired himself, but oddly, he wasn’t bored, wasn’t wishing he could reach his tablet or put something on the television. Brienne’s slow, quiet breaths brushed his neck, she was heavy and slack against him, and Jaime felt peaceful and content to cradle her and watch the daylight slowly fade from the sky. When was the last time he’d done nothing, absolutely nothing, and felt this sense of tranquillity? _When Tyrion was small,_ Jaime realised. _So small that he still needed to take a nap every day. _Jaime had lain down beside him, every day, patted his back until Tyrion’s breathing slowed and he relaxed into sleep. _Hush and away, hush and away. _Where had he learnt that? Aunt Genna? Was it one of his few memories of his mother? He had lain beside Tyrion and watched him sleep, his little back rising and falling with each breath, suspended between waking and sleep himself, in a space entirely composed of a tenderness so keen he could hardly stand it.

He felt it again, holding Brienne to his side. It was almost unbearable, and yet at the same time it was the sweetest peace he’d ever known.

There were parts of the past months that Jaime could only recall in flashes, especially those first terrible days. Podrick Payne at the seaplane dock in White Harbour instead of Brienne, sobbing, incoherent – the maesters telling Jaime he wasn’t allowed in while Brienne screamed for him just beyond the door – snarling on the phone to Tyrion _Get her father here I don’t care what it costs, make it happen –_ Selwyn Tarth striding down the hallway, Brienne screaming _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime! – _Selwyn’s booming, commanding voice as he demanded to know why his goodson was being kept from his daughter’s side.

As Selwyn’s big hand on his shoulder swept him into Brienne’s room Jaime had only wondered why he hadn’t thought of the useful lie for himself. 

Brienne, flushed with fever, begging for her sword, _please, Oathkeeper, he gave it to me, I need my sword! Jaime, Jaime … _the worst hours of his life. He’d longed to simply go away from them, inside his head, somewhere pleasant or nowhere at all, but Brienne had needed him, so he couldn’t, even if there was nothing he could do to help her but hold her hand and stroke her hair and tell her over and over again _I’m here, Brienne,_ _you’re safe, I’m here, I’m here._

She’d only become calmer when one of the nurses had suggested he get into the hospital bed with Brienne and hold her, and he had, and it had worked at least somewhat. So he’d just spent his time like that, curled around her in the tangle of tubes and wires they had her hooked up to, whispering reassurance. When she was transferred to the Quiet Isle Hospital and the Brothers had actually checked the marriage register, and then told Jaime that Selwyn could stay overnight but _he _would have to leave he’d wanted to punch each and every one of them, but his wench didn’t approve of punching people, so, _fine_, he’d find a different solution, and thank the Seven for Tyrion and obscure legal precedents. Once he was _actually_ Brienne’s husband no-one had any problem with him spending the night. Which was pretty fucked up in Jaime’s opinion, because they had no way of knowing he wasn’t some sort of creep who might molest Brienne in her sleep, but she was increasingly getting real, healing sleep and she seemed to know he was there, so Jaime wasn’t about to make an issue of it.

When she’d finally woken he’d wanted to cry like a baby, but that would have alarmed her, and he’d wanted to kiss her, but that would have appalled her, so he’d done neither, although he couldn’t keep from kissing her cheek. That was just friendly, though, and he knew Brienne didn’t mind it. 

Jaime looked down at her now, curled against him. Her left hand rested on his chest. She was still wearing the ring. _And fuck it, we should just make it official and stay married_. They basically already lived together, at least in King’s Landing, right? They ended up sleeping in the same bed most nights, too. He was a lot happier when Brienne was around, and she seemed pretty content with his company, and there might be the issue of him wanting to kiss her about a dozen times a day and getting a hard-on just from looking at her, let alone when she was nestled in his arms, but he’d been controlling himself on that front pretty well. If they stayed married they could go on spending all their time together and just keep doing it for years and years.

It made him a little dizzy to think about it, watching Brienne wake up every morning for the rest of his life.

His phone squawked and he silenced it quickly, before it disturbed Brienne. One message, from Tyrion.

_Cersei knows. She’s not taking it well. Stay off Ravengram, for the sake of your blood pressure. _

Well, that had probably always been going to happen, hadn’t it? The whole reason he’d actually married Brienne instead of just lying about it was because the marriage register was a public record, and it had been inevitable that someone would find out about it and then Cersei would. And after how she’d reacted when she learned that Jaime was _friends_ with Brienne, it had been pretty easy to predict how she’d respond to the fact that he’d _married_ her.

“Jaime?” Brienne said sleepily. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She really was sweetly adorable when she first woke up, soft and smiling. The usual mad urge to kiss her until they were both breathless hit him, but he kissed her cheek instead and if he didn’t have quite enough self-control to pull back immediately, Brienne didn’t seem to notice. “Someone saying nasty things on Ravengram.”

“I’ll stay away from it today, then.”

“Mmm.” _Except it probably won’t be just today, will it? _And fuck, but he had to tell her, didn’t he? _She’s going to start wondering why some stranger has such a strong and specific hatred of her at some point._ And she deserved to know, to know that it wasn’t that someone hated her for who she was but for reasons that really had nothing to do with her wonderful self.

He really hoped she wouldn’t stop being his friend when she knew the truth.

Jaime took a deep breath, and cleared his throat. “Brienne. I’ve got something I need to tell you.”


	61. Brienne XXV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We Need To Talk About Cersei ...

Something in Jaime’s voice made Brienne sit up a little, turning so she could see him properly. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Not exactly. Well maybe. I … look, I need to tell you about something that I did, and I’m really hoping you’ll still like me when I have.”

Brienne frowned. “Of course I will. But if it’s something completely mad like putting a marriage announcement in the _King’s Landing Crier_ or anything like that I can’t promise I won’t be angry.”

Jaime smiled, although he still looked worried and Brienne could feel how tense he was when she put her hand over his. “No. I mean, I’d like to, so I could boast about you for a bit before you decide to take that ring off, but I know how much you’d hate it. It’s –” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “It’s true about Cersei. What they say. All of it, the children too. They’re mine, genetically, at least.”

_Is that all_? Brienne thought, and then wondered at how unsurprised she felt. _I couldn’t tell anyone what really happened,_ he’d said_. Not even Tyrion. _

_Not even Cersei._

“Alright,” she said slowly. “She’s the woman you were talking about, isn’t she? When you were talking about being in love.”

“Yes.” Jaime opened his eyes and stared at her. “Are you hating me?”

“Of course not,” Brienne said. “I mean, I wish you’d been honest with me earlier, but I can understand why you didn’t. You’re not the only person it matters to, are you? There’s her, and your children, too.”

He shook his head. “That’s not why I didn’t want to tell you. I know you won’t tell anyone else. I just …” He shrugged. “It’s a criminal offence in some places, including the Westerlands, most people think it’s disgusting. _You_ should think it’s disgusting. I don’t know how _I_ don’t think that. Cersei and I – Tygett and Darlessa, her parents, they lived near us, and we were always together. I can’t remember not knowing her. We used to play, you know, it was innocent, and then I guess it wasn’t so innocent somehow. I don’t even remember how it changed, or when. Cersei used to say we were so alike we should have been twins, we practically _were_ twins – we were even born on the same day – she used to say we were so alike we were really the same person. I always thought we’d get married, when we grew up.” He shrugged. “And then _Kingslayer_ happened. I asked her to marry me, she said she couldn’t. That my father wouldn’t like it.”

Brienne blinked. “What would _your_ father have to do with it?”

“If your last name is _Lannister_ my father has everything to do with everything. And it would have been a scandal, with or without _Kingslayer_. And after that, well. I told you I went to pieces. It wasn’t drugs, or anything like that. I’m not saying that I might not have gone down that road, if things had been different, but after Aerys … I’m still scared stiff of anything much stronger than aspirin. I just … couldn’t get out of bed. When I started to pull myself together, Cersei had married Robert Baratheon. She said it was for show, for his career, that nothing needed to change between us, and I – I, well.” He took a deep breath. “You know what I did. So you see. I’m a cousin-fucking adulterer. You should stop being nice to me, wench, because I certainly don’t deserve it.” 

“Mmm, I can decide for myself who to be nice to, thank you very much, and if you think you don’t deserve it, Jaime …” Brienne shook her head. “I’ve never had a friend like you, Jaime.” She squeezed his fingers. “You’ve been so good to me. Unfailingly. I think you’re the only person aside from my father who I know I can really trust. So alright, it’s a little weird to be in love with your cousin, but I’ve seen pictures of Cersei … she’s very beautiful. I can see why you love her. And she was the one who was married, not you.”

“I got her pregnant,” Jaime pointed out. “Three times.”

“Did you prick holes in her diaphragm? Switch out her birth control for sugar pills? Lock her up so she couldn’t get hold of moon tea?”

Jaime frowned at her. “Of course not!”

Brienne shrugged. “Then I’d say she bears responsibility for her own reproductive choices. I can’t say I think sleeping with someone else’s wife is –”

“Given how quickly she always kicked me out in case we got caught, I can safely say there was not a single second of sleep involved.” He grinned suddenly. “Funnily enough, wench, the only woman I’ve ever slept with is you.”

“You know what I mean,” Brienne said reproachfully. “I just don’t think it’s a very honourable thing to do. But you’re not the first person in history to do it. And if even half the stories about Robert Baratheon are a quarter true, he wasn’t exactly a faithful spouse, either. And now she’s a widow, so – ”

Jaime shook his head. “It’s over,” he said. “Since … I think she killed Robert. Or engineered the circumstances, anyway, although Robert never needed much encouragement to get rolling drunk. And Joffrey … I don’t know if that was entirely his own idea, you know. Ned Stark knew, about us, about me and Cersei. Or guessed, at least. And he was Robert’s best friend, and Cersei knew that Ned knew, and then they were both dead.”

“Did you tell the Gold Cloaks?” Brienne asked. 

“Tell them what, that I have a groundless suspicion and a bad feeling? Besides. There’s Myrcella and Tommen to think about. Cersei is all they have, now.”

“They have you,” Brienne pointed out.

“Robert Baratheon is on their birth certificates. Even if I got a DNA test, I don’t have any more rights than a sperm donor.”

“You’re still her cousin. So is Tyrion. Your aunts and uncles are her aunts and uncles. And legally, Renly is their uncle. And there’s another Baratheon brother, Stannis.” She paused. “I just feel a little as if a woman you suspect of orchestrating the death of two people, one of them via her own son, is perhaps not the best person to be in charge of two other children.”

“Tyrion would have … ah, I don’t know. I’ll ask him. Maybe there’s something I can do. Should so.”

He looked suddenly exhausted, and Brienne tugged at his arm. “Hey. Come here.”

“Mmm,” Jaime said, and let her pull him down to lean against her shoulder. “Wench. You’re really far better to me than I could ever deserve.”

Brienne ran her fingers through his thick golden hair. “Says the man who slept in a hospital bed with me for a month so I didn’t have so many nightmares.”

“That was pure selfishness.” His breath tickled her neck as he spoke. “I think it would have killed me to not be with you when you needed me there. Brienne.”

Her father was the only person Brienne would ever have believed that of, and she’d spent most of her adolescence making sure that her dad knew he didn’t need to worry about her, but when Jaime said it she believed it, and it didn’t make her feel guilty and sad, it made her feel warm and safe. “I’m glad you told me,” she said quietly. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Well, wench, I might never have worked up the courage but … Cersei was the one who went after you on Ravengram, during the trial. Because of me, because she doesn’t like us being friends. I was going to tell you on our trip to Skagos, and then everything happened and it just didn’t seem important.” He sighed. “Tyrion texted me to say that she’s found out we’re married and … it’s probably going to be bad. I wanted you to know why. It’s really got nothing to do with you.”

“You could tell her that we’re not really,” Brienne suggested. “If she knows you’re not cheating on her –”

“It’s well and truly over between us,” Jaime said. “Since Ned Stark. And I mean, sort of before that since she hadn’t been speaking to me for six months beforehand, she was punishing me … I don’t even know what I’d done that time. I probably would have gone back, if she’d let me, once she’d decided I’d grovelled enough, but after Robert, and Joff, and Ned … I told her I was done. So it’s not cheating on her, marrying you. She just doesn’t like me being close to people who aren’t her, she never has. So I never was, until I met you. Between how she was, and the whole _Kingslayer_ thing meaning people weren’t exactly lining up around the block to be friends with me …”

“Those people are idiots,” Brienne said firmly. “You are really the best friend anyone could have.”

Jaime raised his head from her shoulder and gave her a radiant smile. “Really? You’re not just saying that because I’m wallowing?”

“I’m not,” she assured him. “You’ve gotten really good at it. I mean, occasionally excessive, like with this hotel, but you know, I’ve gotten to like that too, because I know it’s because you want to do nice things for me. I just wish I could reciprocate.”

“You do,” Jaime said, sounding surprised. “All the time. When you pretend to like my fairly average cooking, or say you’ve seen a mermaid or a selkie, or let me do things for you even though I know how independent you like to be. And I know you’re doing it just to make me happy, Brienne, Seven Hells, a hotel room is _nothing_ compared to how that makes me feel.”

He raised his hand to trace her cheek with his fingers and for a moment Brienne actually thought he was going to kiss her. Her head spun with how much she wanted him to. “Jaime …”

Jaime dropped his hand, and cleared his throat. “We should get some dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So quick note about making first-cousin incest illegal in some parts of Modern Westeros and considered incest when it’s totally fine in ASOIAF. First-cousin marriages were legal in all American states before the Civil War but is now illegal in many states, and in some of those, having sex with your first cousin is illegal.


	62. Cersei II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime would never leave Cersei for that huge, ugly, shambling thing in men’s clothes. Specific chapter warning for alcohol abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a Cersei chapter, which means it needs a specific chapter warning for alcohol abuse, meanness, language, and generally, Cersei going full Cersei. And … this is a pretty tough chapter to read and I’m going to have a quick catchup at the beginning of the next chapter so if you want to skip it, you’re fine to.

Cersei poured herself another glass of wine – or tried to, the bottle was empty. _Someone came in and drank my wine! _Probably Tyrion, the little shrimp had always been sneaky and he’d always had it in for her. _He knew I’d never lower myself to bed a deformed freak like him, that was why._

Tyrion was getting into her house and moving things so the furniture was always getting in Cersei’s way when she walked, and now he was stealing her wine. _I bet the children are letting him in, the little traitors. _She couldn’t trust them, she couldn’t trust anyone, except Joffrey, her wonderful Joffrey.

Well, she had another bottle, she had plenty of other bottles. She found three and carried them back to her desk. _I deserve them, after what’s happened._

Jaime, married. _That’s impossible,_ had been her first thought when Petyr Baelish called to tell her. _He wants to marry me, he loves me, only me, always me._ But the record was right there, when she went on the weirnet to look, _Jaime Lannister wed to Brienne Tarth, Quiet Isle. _

Fortified with a fresh glass of Dornish red, Cersei turned back to her computer. Her latest Ravengram about how Brienne Tarth had clearly had to drug Jaime to get him to marry her had nearly six thousand feathers. _Good_.

There were still some idiots replying to her who refused to accept the obvious truth that Jaime would never, ever want to be with someone like that Wun-Wun of a woman. Selwyn@EvenstarTarth even claimed to have been there when they wed, and that it had been _Jaime’s_ idea, which was just flat-out wrong and Cersei told him so in no uncertain terms before she read the rest of the replies.

_Willa@Manderley Brienne Tarth is a hero and I’m not surprised Jaime Lannister is in love with her. #BrienneBlueKnight _

Cersei snorted. _As if anyone could be in love with a freak like that_ she fired back. It took an annoyingly long time, the keyboard had gone all funny – Tyrion’s work, probably. _That little shit. I’ll have to do something about him. I should have done it years ago. _How hard could it be? Given his size, she could just pick him up and throw him out a window next time he came to visit the children.

_Brienne Blue Knight, what the fuck is that, anyway? _She searched the tag and found it was mostly about some stupid age of ice and fire thing, the sort of stuff that Jaime could be so boring about. There were some actual ravens, though, including one with a picture of the ugly bitch in an airport somewhere. Somehow she’d managed to make herself even more hideous with a giant scar on her face. _Ugh_. The thought of Jaime touching _that_ made her feel sick, would make everyone who saw it feel sick. She refilled her glass and re-ravened the picture out to her followers with a vomiting emoji, then followed up with _so gross_. 

_Jon@NightsWatch You may not be aware that Miss Tarth was injured saving a girl from a gang of men attacking her [This raven is the author’s own personal opinion and does not reflect the official opinion of the Night’s Watch]_

_Queen@Throne was the btch too dum to call the cloaks?_

Cersei saw the typos after she clicked _raven_. _Stupid fucking keyboard. _She refilled her glass and fumbled with the weircam on top of the camera. _I’ll just tell everyone. So much easier. _How did it work? Was the light on? _Yes_. Fine. She clicked _liveraven_ and sat down again.

“So you all know about the ugly slut who trapped my Jaime,” she said.

Replies started piling up in the comments section.

_Spider@Web The sound is not on._

Cersei frowned. How in the Seven Hells was she supposed to fix that?

_Spider@Web Click the microphone icon at the bottom left of the screen_

She did. “Is that better?”

_Spider@Web_ _Yes we can all hear you now. _

“Good. So this is about this stupid idea that Jaime would want to marry that … freak. He wouldn’t. It’s that simple.” Her glass was empty so she refilled it. “Brienne fucking Tarth, I mean. Look at her.”

_Podrick@LannisterStokeworth_ _He says she has beautiful eyes. _

_boy@spider he looks really in love in those pictures he Ravengrammed. #Lannistarth_

_littlebird@spider find someone who looks at you like Jaime Lannister looks at Brienne Tarth #Lannistarth_

The number of viewers was ticking upwards. Cersei smiled with satisfaction. “You can’t fuck a pair of eyes,” she told this idiot Podrick. “And he’d never fuck the rest of her. He has _taste_. He’d never lower himself.”

_Bronn@LannisterStokeworth_ _I’m pretty sure he’d fuck her. Because he told me so. #Lannistarth_

_smallbird@spider you sure can stare into them while making sweet, tender love to the woman of your dreams though #Lannistarth_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth you know you’re talking about my daughter, right? _

_littlebird@spider They booked the honeymoon suite so they’re probably doing it right now. #Lannistarth_

“Maybe a pity fuck,” Cersei said. “I mean, she’s obviously a sad virgin. Probably do anything for a bit of dick. But not anything elsh. Else. I mean, look at her, how could he be attracted to her when he's had _me_."

_littlebird@spider I don't believe you. You're making that up_

“I’m not.” She refilled her glass. “We’re meant to be together. Forever. He’s mine. _Mine_. And he’d never bed that that huge, ugly, shambling thing in men’s clothes. He’d never leave me for such a creature.”

_bird@spider why not?_

“Jus’ _look_ at her. And look at me.”

_littlebird@spider_ _I still think you’re making that up. _

_boy@spider of course she is_

_smallgirl@spider it’s just a sad lie_

“I am not iling. Lying. Not.” Cersei grabbed the mouse. _Glad I had the foresight to transfer all those recordings to the hard drive. _“I’ll prove it.” Where was that folder? She clicked frantically. _There!_ She ravened the file out right away and sat back in satisfaction. “You can all see for yourshelves.”

_Ygritte@Freefolk is that Alequo Adarys?_

_Bronn@LannisterStokeworth I guess that’s why they call him Goldentongue. _

_ Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth And Aurane Waters, and Assadora. Practically the whole cast of “Moon Boy”_.

_Rose@Highgarden Distressingly low production values._

_Olenna@Highgarden Distressingly unimaginative, too. _

_Shae@Chataya Worst faked orgasm I ever saw_

_Olenna@Highgarden Hers, or his?_

Cersei frowned. She leaned close to the screen to read the name of the file. _Oh_. “Wrong tape,” she told the camera. “Jus’ delete that. Thish is the one.”

_Spider@Web If you look closely you can see she’s wearing her wedding ring in both videos._

_Davos@Onion no wonder Robert Baratheon drank so much_

_Renly@StormsEnd I know my brother wasn’t a perfect husband but you might at least have taken his ring off before recreating Daena Does Deepwood Motte _

_Stannis@Dragonstone My brother’s sins don’t wash out yours, just as a good act doesn’t wash out a bad one, nor the bad act the good._

_Renly@StormsEnd @ Stannis@Dragonstone Could you be more pompous if you tried?_

_Stannis@Dragonstone @ Renly@StormsEnd This is no time for flippancy._

_Renly@StormsEnd @ Stannis@Dragonstone We’re watching our goodsister’s sex tapes, Stannis. It seems like the perfect time for flippancy. _

“See?” Cersei told them all. “It’s true. My Jaime would never want that _thing_, not when he could have me.”

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Certainly everyone else can, apparently. _

_smallbird@spider I guess he moved on #Lannistarth_

_littlebird@spider to someone better #Lannistarth_

“Listen, you bitches,” Cersei told the screen. “I first had him when we were twelve, he’d never want another woman. I was the first to make him hard and the first to make him come and he’ll always want _me_, only _me_.”

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth @ Bywater@GoldCloaks This liveraven right here_

_smallgirl@spider I don't know how you could be surprised he moved on to someone younger than you_

_boy@spider I bet your tits are getting droopy_

“They are _not_!” Cersei screamed at the screen. “They are perfect!”

_boy@spider don’t believe you_

_littlebird@spider me neither_

_smallbird@spider at your age they’re down to your knees._

“How dare you!” _I’ll fucking show the cunts._ She ripped at the buttons of her shirt. _Shit, why do they make them so small and fiddly – Tyrion probably paid my dry-cleaner to do it – there! _She tore it open, accidentally sending her wineglass flying, and showed them all just exactly how perfect her breasts were. “See? See?”

_Davos@Onion woman cover yourself_

_littlebird@spider ugh nobody needs to see that_

_boy@spider old lady tits yuck_

“They are not!” Cersei grabbed the bottle of wine and drank. She turned to show her breasts in their perfect profile, then leaned in close to the camera so they could admire her nipples. “Jaime lovesh them. He lovesh me. He’ll come back. Or I’ll cut that fucking cow’s fash, face, off. I’ll be doing the ugly cunt a favour.”

_Bronn@LannisterStokeworth Brienne could break you in half with one hand_

_Gendry@Bull I’ve seen her fight, lady. For real. _

_Willa@Manderley @ Gendry@Bull Are you the Gendry who was there at White Harbour?_

_Gendry@Bull @ Willa@Manderley Yes. _

_Willa@Manderley @ Gendry@Bull My friend has a huge crush on you, Arya@Winterfell_

_Sandor@Hound I’d tell you that I’ll fucking tear the arms off anyone who hurts Brienne but you’re just a sad drunk making empty threats_

“Oh, you think sho, do you?” Cersei sneered at them. “Like you know anything. She wouldn’t be the firsht. People think I’m dumb because I’m beautiful. I’m not dumb. I’m smarter than all of them. Shmarter than all of _you_.”

“Mama?” Myrcella said behind her. “Are you alright?”

_Gods be good, the brat was always whining about something. _“Go away, Myrcella.”

“Mama, I think you should turn the computer off.”

“I said go away!” Cersei drank from the bottle of Dornish again. A swallow went down the wrong way and she coughed, threw up a little in her mouth and spat it out. She threw the empty bottle aside and grabbed the next. “I got that bish Melara. Got her good. And Robert. Hah! He thought I wash dumb, too.”

“Mama, I really think –” Myrcella reached past her, towards the camera.

“Shut up, you little cunt.” Cersei grabbed her arm and shoved her away. Myrcella, the clumsy little whore, tripped over with a cry and started whining about cutting herself. “Make sure you don’t get any blood on the good rugs,” Cersei ordered her, squinting at the screen.

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth @ Bywater@GoldCloaks I’ve called 337 but would appreciate you giving this personal attention immediately_

_Bywater@GoldCloaks @ Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Cloaks and Septas enroute _

Cersei scowled at them. _What? What are they talking about? They’re supposed to be talking about me, about how sexy I am, not about some stupid Gold Cloak thing. _“I’m going to fuck Jaime,” she told them. “Fuck some shense into him. He wants me. Always.”

_Stannis@Dragonstone @ Bywater@GoldCloaks I am the children’s uncle please raven me instructions for custody immediately_

_Arya@Winterfell @ Willa@Manderley You shut up I don’t have a crush _

_Renly@StormsEnd @ Stannis@Dragonstone Hey, I’M the fun uncle!_

_Stannis@Dragonstone @ Renly@StormsEnd You can’t even keep a houseplant alive_

_Willa@Manderley @ Arya@Winterfell You have his picture on your wall. _

_Renly@StormsEnd @ Stannis@Dragonstone That was one fern!_

_Stannis@Dragonstone @ Renly@StormsEnd That I gave you. _

“Shut up! Shut up!” Cersei screamed at them. “No-one caresh about your shtupid fern! No-one caresh about _you_! I’m going to get Jaime back and I’m going to make him go on his hands and knees and beg me to forgive him and he will, he _will_ because he loves me, not her, not that stupid slut of a freakish bitch!” Downstairs, someone was pounding on the door. _Fuck off_. “He belongs to me, always. He can’t live without me.” Voices downstairs. “Shit.” Tommen must have answered the door, he knew better but he wasn’t good at remembering, he was stupid, not like her Joffrey. Cersei lurched to her feet and staggered towards the door to tell whoever it was to fuck off. A sharp pain lanced through her foot and she looked down to see she’d trodden on her broken wineglass. “Myrcella, you stupid cunt, why didn’t you clean this up?” she yelled. “Myrcella? _Myrcella!_”

_Fuck the rugs. _She stumbled into the wall and felt her way along it to the door. The corridor was full of people, some of them in uniform. Cersei roundly told them to all go fuck themselves and shoved past them.

Or tried to. One of them actually put his hands on her, and didn’t let her go even when she screamed at him and raked his face with her nails. Myrcella was whining again _Mama, Mama, please stop, please stop_.

“You want a feel, is that it?” Cersei said. “Fine. But I won’t fuck you.” She arched her back so her breasts stuck out. “Go ahead, have a squeeze.” Instead he manhandled her down the stairs. “What are you doing? What the fuck – who do you think you are? Fucking let go of me!” He was pushing her towards the door. “Fine, I’ll fuck you. Or suck you off. I –” The front door opened and sudden bright flashes blinded her. _Paparazzi._ Well, good. Everyone would see how beautiful she was and how insane it was to ever think Jaime would choose Brienne the Butch over her. Cersei strode proudly out of the front door but Tyrion had changed the steps and she tripped and fell to her knees. The man dragging her pulled her up again and the motion made her stomach lurch and then she was vomiting and vomiting, red splashing on the steps and on the man and on her but it felt good to get it out and then she suddenly needed to pee, really needed to, and she retched again and went a little and it felt good to let that out too so she did and it was so good she moaned.

Someone picked her up and began to carry her down the steps. Her last conscious thought was _Jaime. Jaime has come to rescue me._


	63. Tyrion VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion copes with the aftermath. Chapter warning: some references to alcohol abuse.

Tyrion checked in on his houseguests before going downstairs again.

Tommen and Myrcella were both sound asleep in the second guestroom, Myrcella in the bed and Tommen on the couch. Tyrion winced again to look at the bandage on Myrcella’s face. _She could have lost an eye and sweet Cersei would have been too drunk to notice or care_.

He should have been pleased with the success of their plan: Cersei had been easy for Varys’s little birds to bait, easy to provoke, and her drunken ranting on her liveraven would give the Gold Cloaks enough to look further into Robert Baratheon’s death. Myrcella had been hurt, yes, but with how much Cersei had been drinking lately one of the children being hurt had already been Tyrion’s biggest fear.

_I really should have realised sooner how bad she’d gotten._ The raving, that he’d expected. Flashing the entire weirnet and posting the sex-tapes that Varys had so carefully relabelled with his remote access to her computer, that had been a satisfying self-destruction of the woman who’d made Jaime miserable and twisted his life in ways Tyrion himself didn’t entirely understand. But seeing Cersei carried semi-conscious to a Gold Cloak van, vomit in her hair and urine dripping down her legs, had not been satisfying.

It had just been sad.

Bronn had been evicted from the main guestroom and sent downstairs to the living room couch, so Stannis and his little daughter Shireen had somewhere to sleep. Tyrion had felt a little better about Tommen and Myrcella going to Dragonstone when he’d realised that Stannis had had the good sense to appreciate his niece and nephew might find Shireen’s presence reassuring. Stannis Baratheon was grim and stern and not what Tyrion would have considered child-friendly, but Shireen clearly adored him and he was gentle and patient with her. And Shireen was sweetly kind to Tommen and Myrcella, until they began to come back out of their shells and answer her questions – and her smiles.

Tyrion had insisted to Stannis that both children get counselling, that he’d pay for it himself if necessary, and Stannis had given him a look that said _what sort of savage do you think I am_ and said yes, of course. So, alright, Stannis would probably be a decent enough guardian and he’d clearly done a terrific job with his own daughter, and honestly a giant wolf-pack would probably do a better job of raising children than Cersei Lannister.

He made his way back downstairs. _I need to call Jaime. _Not a call he was looking forward to, but it was extremely likely that Cersei’s implosion would be the front page tomorrow, and not just in the tabloids. She was Renly Baratheon’s goodsister, she was Robert Baratheon’s widow, her son had murdered Eddard Stark. She was _news_.

Tyrion shut himself in his study, and dialled.

“Little brother,” Jaime said at the other end of the line, and he sounded happy and relaxed in a way Tyrion couldn’t really remember him sounding _ever_.

“Brother mine.”

“What’s wrong?” Jaime said instantly. “Are you alright? Is it Shae? Should I –”

“You should shut up and let me tell you,” Tyrion said acidly. “I’m alright. Shae’s fine. It’s Cersei.”

“I don’t want to know,” Jaime said. “Tyrion, I’ve told you and told you, I don’t want to know –”

“She’s been carted off to Maegor’s Hospital,” Tyrion blurted. “The children are with me, tonight. Tomorrow Stannis is taking them to Dragonstone. Jaime? Jaime, say something.”

“Maegor’s is a loony bin,” Jaime said slowly.

“A psychiatric facility, yes. You’re going to see some fairly terrible things in the papers tomorrow, I expect. And online. Including, no doubt, stills from her sex-tapes.”

“We never made a sex-tape,” Jaime said blankly.

“_She _did. Probably for blackmail purposes, Jaime, I’ve _seen_ them. She Ravengrammed two of them, not the ones she made of you, Varys hacked remote access to her computer and deleted those _months_ ago. One with Kettleblack, one with … more people. But she claimed one of them was of you, repeatedly boasted about it in fact. She also flashed the entire weirnet, demanded the viewers of her liveraven admire her breasts, and threatened to cut Brienne’s face.” 

“Gods be good.” Jaime sounded shaken. “Gods be good.”

Tyrion bit his lip. “There’s more. She talked about having sex with you when you were both twelve. She pushed Myrcella over and Myrcella cut her face – she’s fine. She’s fine. But you’re going to get some incoming media interest, I expect. Especially since most of her raving was about you, about how you loved her and not Brienne –”

“Brienne’s my friend,” Jaime said.

“Yes, your friend that you’re married to and staying in a luxury honeymoon suite with, _Jaime_. Stay inside the hotel tomorrow, both of you. You’ll get papped anywhere else, the second anyone works out where you are.” He paused. “And – Brienne is going to find out. About you, and Cersei.”

“She knows,” Jaime said, surprisingly. “I told her. I knew Cersei would, I mean, Crone’s cunt, not _this_ but you know. Brienne needed to know it was nothing to do with _her_, that it was me. And I … I guess I wanted to tell her, too.”

“How did she take it?”

“She worried about Tommen and Myrcella,” Jaime said fondly. “She really is absolutely amazing, Tyrion. I think she might be the best person in Westeros. In the world.”

“She’s certainly been good for _you_,” Tyrion observed.

“She’s good for everyone. You should see her with Podrick. She’s so patient and amazing and sweet with him. I mean, she’s so strong and incredible, you wouldn’t think she’d be so _nice_, but she is. You probably think that’s stupid, I would have thought it was stupid before I met her, but it’s just the most fantastic thing, Tyrion, _niceness_. You know a girl said something on the weirnet about wanting to fight like her and Brienne found her a good trainer in her area and talks to her every week about how she’s getting on? She doesn’t even know her, never met her. That’s how wonderful she is.”

“That’s … great,” Tyrion said. “Uh, but on the topic at hand? I’m fairly sure, almost entirely sure, that you’re in the clear legally so long as it was true when you told me – _don’t _say anything when I finish – that you hadn’t bedded Cersei in the Westerlands since you were both under-age. It’s very likely, though, that you will have to talk to the Gold Cloaks at some point. I’m going to need you to see a maester with a link in counselling before then.”

“Why?”

“Because, Jaime, you’re the man and Cersei’s the woman, and you were the boy and she was the girl, and the first thing the Gold Cloaks are going to ask is if you pressured or even forced her into it. _I_ know her, and I know you, and I know that’s not the case, but I’d like to have a professional opinion to wave at the Cloaks that backs me up when I say it.”

Jaime sighed. “Fine. I’ll talk to Luwin about it. He already knows, I mean, a lot of it.”

“And who is this Luwin, and what exactly does he know?” Tyrion asked, starting to feel a little anxious. _Alright, he told Brienne, but technically they’re legally married so she can’t be forced to give evidence against him. But gods be good, who else has he told?_

“He’s my therapist, Tyrion don’t worry, he’s not going to say anything to the Cloaks, you know they’re not allowed to because of maester-patient confidentiality.”

Tyrion blinked. “You’re in therapy? That’s … very good.”

“It’s pretty awful, actually, but it did help me understand that you were probably mostly right about Cersei.”

“Then I thank the Seven for Luwin,” Tyrion said. “And have you talked to anyone else about any of this?”

“No, Tyrion,” Jaime said patiently, as if Tyrion was the one being unreasonable.

“About the children’s paternity?”

“Just Brienne, not another soul.”

“Well, Cersei didn’t mention it on her liveraven, but Baelish is probably going to resurrect the rumour, and you’re going to get questions about it. And you’re definitely going to get questions about …”

“Being a cousin-fucker,” Jaime said.

“You have the option to deny it, to say it was just the drunken ravings of a delusional alcoholic,” Tyrion said. “Obviously, as your lawyer, I can’t advise you to lie, but she was … not at her most credible. Jaime, I planned to push her over the edge but I didn’t realise the cliff was quite so high.”

“You _planned_?”

“Someone had to do something. But I thought it would end with the Social Septas declaring Cersei an unfit parent and her realising she needed to check in to rehab, not with … this.”

“You know,” Jaime said in the really level tone that Tyrion knew meant his brother was deciding whether or not to be seriously angry, “I do wish you had checked with me before you made sure all of Westeros didn’t just suspect but _knew_ I bedded my cousin.”

“I swear by the old gods and the new, that was _never_ the plan. I thought she’d make the same kind of fool of herself as she did last time, and then she just came right out with it, and Varys … improvised.” 

“Well, fuck, so much for a new narrative, I guess. I’ll be the cousin-fucking Kingslayer until I die, now.”

“I’m working on it,” Tyrion said quickly.

Jaime snorted. “How do you _spin_ something like that?”

“Not easily,” Tyrion admitted. “But Robert Baratheon’s excesses were well known. Whatever Cersei _said_ about you, she’s just provided plenty of evidence she wasn’t exactly a happy, faithful wife, regardless of your involvement. Stay away from the press and let them chase Aurane Waters and Alequo Adarys and all the rest for now. If she had other copies of your recordings, the Cloaks are the only ones who have access to them now, and I doubt Jacelyn Bywater will let them leak. You’ve been telling yourself and me that you and Cersei were star-crossed lovers for years, well, resurrect _that_ narrative, the young boy who fell in love and just couldn’t refuse her anything, _especially_ once she was stuck in a terrible marriage with a man who made the eight three times over. You were blind to her faults, which has the benefit of being completely true. You haven’t been with her for a year, more, and a year ago Cersei was … well, not _this_, certainly. But don’t talk to _anyone_ until I clear you to, alright?”

“Alright,” Jaime said with a sigh. “But no-one’s ever going hire me again.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. You’re not the first actor to bed a married woman, you’re probably not even the five thousandth. Yes, she’s your cousin. Dorne and the Reach won’t blink. I doubt anyone north of the Wall will care much either. The Crownlands and the Stormlands will get over it, the Vale and the Iron Islands will too, although it might take longer. That’s about seventy percent of the population of Westeros who are still going to plonk down their dragons to see your movies.” 

“Does my contract for _Once Upon A Time In Dorne _have a morals clause?”

“Jaime, would I let you sign a contract that allowed them to fire you over bad publicity, gods be good, how much of a fool do you think I am?”

“Well, that’s something. At least they’ll have to pay me out.”

Tyrion sighed. Once Jaime started wallowing there was nothing to be done but wait it out. “Look. Just stay away from anyone with a camera or a microphone, and if you can’t, say _no comment_ or nothing at all. Promise me, Jaime.”

“Fine,” Jaime said. “I’ll stay inside the hotel. I won’t talk to the press. I won’t answer any calls from numbers I don’t recognise. I know the drill, Tyrion. Just do what you can to keep Brienne as far away from this as possible, as whatever Cersei’s said and ravened will let you. If there’s one person in Westeros who doesn’t deserve to be dragged through the tabloids, it’s her.”

“You or she need to get in touch with her family, too. Tarth’s out of the way, but it’s not Bear Island.”

“Fuck. Selwyn. I’ll have to tell him.”

“He … knows, Jaime. He saw the liveraven.”

“Fuck,” Jaime said. “Can you … if I give you his number, can you talk to him? I can’t … I mean how do you say, hey, legal but not really goodfather, thanks for letting me marry your daughter, by the way, that now means you and she are in the middle of a tabloid shitstorm over the fact that I bedded my cousin?”

“Sure,” Tyrion said. “But Jaime, you need to talk to Stannis too at some point. And that’s a conversation only you can have.”

“Hey, Mr Baratheon, that niece and nephew you’re raising? Not so much.” Jaime snorted. “No. That’s a conversation that does nobody any good.”

“Maybe not just now,” Tyrion agreed. “But eventually.”

“Mmm.” Jaime was silent a moment. “I don’t want to think about it right now. Do you have any other bad news for me?”

“I think that’s about it.”

“Then if you’ll excuse me, I have to go work out how to break it to Brienne that her Dornish holiday is going to involve the hotel pool, the hotel restaurant, and the hotel suite. At least she’s got about six more seasons of _Sunspear Vice _to rewatch while gazing adoringly at Arys Fuckstick and the new season’s started as well.” He sighed gustily. “She’d be perfect to be married to if she had better taste in television. I don’t know why she has such a crush on him. He’s not even that good looking.”

“She’s not a lesbian?” Tyrion asked with some surprise.

“Fuck, Tyrion, I’d would have thought _you_ would know better than to judge people on how they look. Just because she’s big and strong doesn’t mean she’s a lesbian.”

“You’re right, I just … you keep saying she’s not … that you were certain she wasn’t interested in you.” _Which would make her just about the only hetero – or bi – woman in Westeros who would kick Jaime Lannister out of bed. _

“She’s not. We’re friends, and that’s too perfect to fuck up. I mean, just knowing I’m going to talk to her on the phone later in the day makes me happy, let alone being with her. You know when she’s trying not to laugh she gets these little crinkles at the corners of her eyes?”

“That … sounds a bit like how I feel about Shae,” Tyrion said slowly. “Not the eye crinkles, obviously, the happiness parts.”

“I thought you and Shae were in love.”

“We … are?”

“Sounds more like you’re friends,” Jaime said matter-of-factly. “I mean, that’s how Brienne and I feel about each other. At least, I think she feels the same as me, she seems to.”

Tyrion held his phone away from his ear and stared at it for several seconds while his mind re-organised several thousand things his brother had said in recent months. _Seven Hells. _Jaime’s voice squawked faintly but when Tyrion put the phone back to his ear he’d only missed part of another paean to the miracle that was Brienne Tarth. _Seven Hells._ “Uh, Jaime? Do you still have that … problem you talked about? The inappropriate thoughts?”

Jaime sighed. “I’m not going to _do_ anything about it, Tyrion, I’m not some kind of asshole.”

_Seven bloody buggering Hells. _

_Bronn might have been right. _

_We may actually need to steal their clothes and lock them in a room together. _


	64. Jaime XXV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holed up in the Sandship Hotel, there's only so much Sunspear Vice Jaime can take. Slightly NSFW

Jaime was not even slightly tempted to check the weirnet news sites or look at Ravengram. Sooner or later he’d have to find out the details of what had happened, but there were reasons he employed Peck and one of them was that there were times when it was better to learn what people were saying about you second-hand. _Kingslayer_ had taught him that.

Out there, in the world, on the weirnet, people were doubtless saying things that would flay him raw, no matter how used he was to opprobrium. Worse, they would be saying things about Brienne – the Mullendorks and Cuntingtons of the world.

In here, Brienne was sleeping, and Jaime was watching her.

He infinitely preferred the latter.

Her eyelashes were so fair they were almost invisible against her cheeks, except where the morning light glazed them to gold. It found hints of platinum in her hair and gilded the freckles on her forehead and slid down her cheek until Jaime couldn’t help leaning forward and pressing his lips to the spot it touched.

Brienne stirred. “Mmm.”

“Shhh, go on sleeping,” Jaime whispered guiltily.

“Jaime,” she mumbled.

“Shhh,” he soothed again. “Hush and away. Hush and away.”

“Mmm,” Brienne said again and subsided back into slumber. Jaime watched her, hardly daring to breathe in case he woke her again, until at last her eyes opened and she gave him her sweet, sleepy smile. “Jaime.”

He smiled back. “Good morning. What do you want for breakfast?”

She rolled over onto her back and stretched, a sight which concentrated the blood in Jaime’s body somewhat lower than his waist. “What is there?”

“This is the Sandship hotel. If you want Qohori quail eggs, they’ll make you Qohori quail eggs.”

“Ordinary eggs? Scrambled?”

“With toast and fruit?” Jaime asked, and when she nodded he rolled over and reached for the room phone to call room service.

“What do you want to do today?” Brienne asked.

“Hotel pool. Weirflix. Hotel restaurant,” Jaime said.

“We might as well be at home,” Brienne said. “I’ve never been to Dorne. We could go to the Water Gardens? I know it’s really tacky but it might be fun.”

Jaime took a deep breath, not looking at her. “Maybe not today? There’s … well, there’s a thing.”

Brienne leaned over and put her hand on his back. “Jaime? What’s happened?”

“Cersei seems to have … well, she …”

“Hey.” Brienne shifted closer to him and put her arms around him. “Jaime? It’s alright. Whatever it is.”

“She Ravengrammed about us, about her and me,” Jaime said rapidly. “And apparently had a meltdown that put her in the hospital. Tyrion says it’s going to be all over the weirnet, the papers, and I need to stay away from public places if I don’t want reporters and paparazzi all over me.”

“How are Tommen and Myrcella?” Brienne asked immediately.

_Gods be good, she’s just so good. _“Stannis. They’re going to stay with him.”

“Mmm.” Brienne leaned her face against the back of his neck. “I only met him a few times, when I worked for Renly, but his daughter seemed like a really happy little girl. I’m sure he’ll take good care of them.”

“Better than I would,” Jaime said ruefully.

“I think you’d be a pretty great guardian,” Brienne said.

“I have no idea what to do with children.”

She chuckled a little. “No-one does, Jaime, not to start with. You should hear Dad’s stories about when Galladon was born. You just love them, and look stuff up. And you’re good at both those things.” She ran her fingers gently through his hair. “I mean, even if you’re just a friend to them, you’re about the best friend ever.”

“It’s better that they don’t know.”

“Maybe. Maybe now. But, you know, Jaime, the story is out there. Sooner or later they’re going to hear about it. And eventually they’re going to be old enough to do a DNA test, and it’s not going to match with anyone in the Baratheon family, is it?”

“You think I should tell them?”

“I think you should have a conversation with Stannis and probably Renly about it. At some point. And you should probably talk to Maester Luwin, too.” Brienne trailed her fingers through his hair again and Jaime couldn’t help leaning back into her embrace. “What’s best for Tommen and Myrcella is what’s important.”

“Yes,” Jaime said, because she was right, and honestly because he couldn’t have said anything else in that moment. Brienne’s fingers running through his hair felt indecently good, her other arm wrapped around his chest felt better. He just leaned against her and let himself enjoy how strong and solid she was against him. After a while, in the other room, the door opened, and Jaime could hear plates being set out. “Breakfast,” he said.

“Yes,” Brienne said, and let him go.

They ate, lounged by the pool with books, swam a little, and deliberately ignored the weirnet. After lunch in one of the Sandship Hotel’s several luxury restaurants, they lay on the couch and watched _Sunspear Vice_, and _fine_, his wench had a crush on the worst actor in Westeros, who wasn’t even that good-looking, objectively speaking, so Jaime could put up with the idiot plots and worse dialogue. At least the show seemed to be inching towards resolving the romantic sub-plot, with Arys Butthead and his co-star exchanging longing looks with increasing frequency.

“I think they’re finally going to kiss in this one,” he told Brienne. “Although why she doesn’t just move on to someone else I’ll never understand. She could do so much better.”

“He saved her life in season one, I _told_ you,” Brienne said patiently. “I mean, they mention it at least three times a season, if you paid attention instead of talking all through it you’d know that.”

“If I paid attention I’d notice all the plot contrivances,” Jaime said. “And then I’d have even more to say. Like, how is it that Arys Zitface’s phone _always_ stops working right when he really needs it? And how come –”

Brienne poked him in the ribs. “I’m _watching_.”

He kept quiet for as long as he could. “They’re definitely going to kiss.” Brienne sighed, picked up the remote, and turned off the television. “What?”

“Jaime, _if_ they kiss, it will be the culmination of six seasons of pining for each other, and I’d like to be able to watch it and enjoy it without you telling me everything that’s wrong with it.”

Jaime paused. “Am I really ruining it for you?”

“Not generally, no,” Brienne said. “I actually enjoy your nonsense. It’s just … I know I’m not ever going to get someone like Arys Oakheart interested in me, romantically, but I still like the stories.”

“Rubbish, wench. I mean, Arys is apparently head-over-heels in love with Arianne Martell, poor bastard, and her eyes aren't a patch on yours.”

Brienne smiled. “You’re very sweet sometimes,” she said, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. The soft pressure of her lips just above the line of his beard felt good, almost inappropriately so.

Jaime thought fixedly about dragon names and lists of long-dead kings. “You can put it back on. I won’t say a word.”

She burst out laughing. “Jaime, I’m quite certain that’s a physical impossibility. Let’s go and see if there’s a bookstore in this hotel.”

There was, and they spent a pleasant hour browsing the history section before Jaime bought _The Soiled Knight_ and Brienne bought _Sun and Spear: An analysis of Dornish military tactics. _

The restaurant wasn’t serving dinner, yet, but Brienne said she didn’t want to go back to their suite for a while yet and so they wandered through the ground floor loggia hand in hand until they found a bar that had a food menu. One end of it opened out onto the central courtyard with its plants and fountains and there was a long bar that curved around the edge of the room with suns and spears carved into the pale blond wood. It was empty, apart from them and the bartender, a woman with long black hair and a strikingly exotic face who gave them a welcoming smile.

“Welcome to _Ellaria’s_,” she said. “And I’m Ellaria. What can I get you?”

Jaime made sure Brienne was settled on her barstool and sat himself. “An ale. Something local? And …” He scanned the menu. “This potato dish. Brienne?”

“Mmm, if you want something local, I can make you something better than ale,” Ellaria said.

“A little early for cocktails, for me,” Jaime said. 

“Less of a punch than a glass of wine,” the bartender assured him. “And better with Dornish food than ale.”

“Alright, then.”

Brienne agreed as well, and Ellaria made several recommendation for additional dishes, sent their order to the kitchen and started hulling strawberries. “Is this your first time in Dorne?”

“Mine,” Brienne said. “But Jaime’s been before.”

Ellaria glanced at Brienne’s hand, and smiled. “Honeymoon?”

“No,” Brienne said, as Jaime said, “Yes.”

Ellaria laughed a little, dropping the chopped strawberries into glasses and picking up a bottle. “Let me guess, your Ravengram relationship statuses are _it’s complicated._” She finished the drinks and pushed them across the bar. “Let me know what you think.”

It was good, fruity and refreshing with just enough alcohol to taste, and Jaime told her so.

Brienne tried her own. “This is nice. And it’s not really complicated. We’re friends.”

“Married friends,” Jaime pointed out.

“Yes, but we’re not really married.”

“Wench, we _are_ really married, that was the point.”

“I really don’t think it counts as a real marriage when I was unconscious,” Brienne said.

“Tyrion says it does.”

“Tyrion also said he found a dragon egg and convinced you to spend three months trying to hatch it,” Brienne said. “I mean, sure. We’re temporarily _legally_ married, but I’m pretty sure we’re not _really_ married.”

“Now this is a story I need to hear,” Ellaria said.

Brienne shrugged a little. “I was in the hospital –”

“After absolutely heroically saving someone’s life,” Jaime put in, and she blushed a little.

“Well, I couldn’t have done that if you hadn’t given me Oathkeeper.”

“Which I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t saved my life.”

“You also saved _my_ life,” Brienne said. “Maybe I should give Oathkeeper back.”

He put his hand over hers. “I told you. It’s yours and it will always be yours. Always and only yours.”

“Another drink?” Ellaria said. “To celebrate being _legally_ married?”

And the drinks were mild, after all, so they both had another and ate some really excellent Dornish appetisers and Jaime found himself telling Ellaria about the Brave Companions and why he’d given Brienne Oathkeeper, and then Brienne insisted on telling her about _sapphires_, which meant Jaime had to counter with how Brienne had been there every step of the way for his rehabilitation, which led to Brienne telling the story of Connington and Hunt and Mullendore, _not that I can condone violence but no-one but Dad has ever been angry on my behalf before_.

Her smile when she said it was so shy and sweet that Jaime had to kiss her cheek and then kiss it again. “We should stay married, wench,” he said impulsively. “It’ll be perfect. We already spend all our time together. You can just move in officially, and I’ll buy a place in Evenfall for weekends. I like being around you, and you seem to tolerate me fairly well. You’re my best friend, and I know that I don’t have a lot of _other_ friends, but if I had five hundred you’d still be my favourite. So let’s just stay married, forever.”

“Oh, Jaime.” Brienne bit her lip. “You’re very sweet. But I can’t.”

His stomach sank. “Because of … what’s happened. What I did. Right. Sorry.” He picked up his drink and took a long swallow. “I didn’t think.”

“Jaime, that’s not –” Brienne said. “Jaime. It has nothing to do with _what’s happened_ or any of that.”

The drink was not sitting well. “But you don’t want to be the cousin-fucking Kingslayer’s wife. Which is, you know. Completely understandable.”

Brienne put her hand over his. “Jaime. I can’t stay married to you because you’re not in love with me. And one day you’ll meet someone beautiful and then you’ll want to be with _them_, and being married to me won’t be what you want. And I don’t think I could stand that.”

“I won’t ever meet anyone I’d rather be married to than you,” Jaime said. “But, obviously, there are a lot of better prospects out there than –”

“Jaime, I could be married to you, as a friend, I _could_, I’d be happy to, but …” She stopped, biting her lip.

He gave her a hard smile. “Got it, wench. No need to go on.”

“I can’t stay married to you because I’m in love with you!” she snapped, and then froze, hand to her mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to … just forget I said that.”

“Oh, Brienne,” Jaime said gently. “You’re in love with me?”

She nodded, not looking at him. “I know I’m fairly pathetic, the ugly girl in love with the beautiful man and settling for friendship, but I refuse to be so pathetic as to be the ugly girl who settles for a sham marriage to the guy she wants to be married to, for real.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jaime said. He put his arm around her shoulders and gathered her into a hug. “It’s miserable, being in love. It’s the worst feeling in the world and the last thing I’d wish on anyone, least of all you.”

Brienne raised her head. “No it isn’t. I mean, moments like this are fairly miserable. But mostly it’s wonderful. Just being with you makes me happy, Jaime, even if all you feel is friendship and I feel so much more. My heart lifts whenever you smile at me, and I smile every time my phone squawks and it’s _you_ calling. You talk such absolutely ridiculous nonsense as if you really believe it, sometimes I even think you _do_ really believe it, and I love that. And I love that you get me to join in with you, I’ve never been very good at jokes but you make me funny, Jaime, and I love making you laugh, and I love that I’m the kind of person who can be light-hearted and ridiculous when I’m around you, I love that you hug me and kiss my cheek and it makes me feel comfortable and not like I’m hideous, I love that you tell me things that you like about me and I actually believe them, I love that when I’m with you I actually like who I am and even how I look, a lot of the time. You are always there when I need you and I’ve actually started to rely on that, and I’ve never been the sort of person who would trust someone to just be there and look after me, but you make me that sort of person and I love that you do. And alright, I want to kiss you so much that I can hardly stand it sometimes, and that _is_ miserable, but don’t worry, I’m not silly enough to actually _do_ anything about it. It’s enough that somehow, someone as wonderful as you is my friend.”

“That’s alright, then,” Jaime said with relief. “You’re not in love with me.”

Brienne pulled back a little, frowning at him. “Jaime, I think I can tell. I mean, I have been in love before, of course he wasn’t in love back, and it wasn’t like _this_, it was about ten percent of this, but I do know what it feels like.”

“No, wench, that’s friendship, and you’re right, it is wonderful. Being in love …” He shrugged. “It’s thinking about the other person all the time, not like I think about you all the time because it’s lovely, but because you can’t stop thinking about them no matter how much you don’t want to and how sick it makes you feel sometimes. It’s wanting to be with them even when you know you don’t like the person you are around then, and a lot of the time don’t like _them_, either, but you go when they call. It’s wanting to bed them all time, and sometimes hating it when you do, and usually hating yourself _after_ you do, but doing it anyway. I mean, you want to kiss me but you don’t, and I want to kiss you all the bloody time but I don’t, because we’re not in love with each other. Neither of us is such an asshole as to make a move on our friend.”

Brienne’s astonishing eyes went very wide. “You want to kiss me?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. I mean, I’ve been wanting to kiss you since Last Dark, at least, and I haven’t done it yet, have I?”

She stared at him disbelievingly. “You have? Why?”

Jaime snorted. “Wench, I know morons like Mullendork and Hyle Cunt can’t see how fucking gorgeous and amazing you are, but that’s their problem. Of course I want to kiss you, I’m only human.”

Ellaria cleared her throat. “You know, it probably wouldn’t really be an asshole thing for one friend who wants to kiss the other to kiss her the way she wants him to. In a friendly way.”

Jaime couldn’t look away from Brienne’s blue, blue eyes and her sweet plump lips. “It wouldn’t?” 

“Definitely not,” the bartender said firmly.

“I don’t really know how to kiss anyone,” Brienne whispered. “I’ve never done it before.”

“Well, as a friend, maybe I should show you?” Jaime ventured.

“You definitely should,” Ellaria said.

So he did. 

_Her first kiss_, so, Stranger take him if he wasn’t going to make it a good one. Jaime had kissed half-a-hundred women over the course of his career, but this time there were no camera angles to worry about and Brienne’s lips tasted of fruit and olives, not toothpaste and mouthwash, and gods be good they were soft. He drew her closer and she leaned into him trustingly, which did funny things to his heart as well as to parts further south. Her lips were yielding but firmly closed, so he contented himself to just tracing them with his own, gently, gently, and then her hands came up to clutch his shoulders and her mouth opened on a sigh, so he tasted the inside of her lips. Her hands went to his hair and she held him there as if he was doing exactly what she wanted, so he did it again, and again, and she made a noise in her throat, almost a moan, so, good, she was enjoying this at least enough for it to be a pleasant memory.

And then her mouth moved against his and _gods be good gods be good_ she’d gained enough confidence to start kissing him back, so sweetly and gently he thought he might faint from the tenderness of it. Her tongue met his, shyly, and, alright, he had to stop before the urge to pull her into his lap and rack up another public indecency arrest, this one _not_ staged, grew too strong for him to resist, but _one more second, one more second, she tastes of salt and strawberries, one more second …_

He managed to pull back, breathing as if he’d just run Visenya’s Hill. Brienne was flushed and breathing hard as well. “Was that alright? For a first kiss?”

She opened her eyes slowly, and gave him a dreamy smile. “That was lovely.”

“I can do better,” he promised her. “You should give me the chance to do better.”

Her smile spread until it was a glorious as a sunrise. “Alright.”


	65. Brienne XXVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has finally worked something out. NSFW

_I kissed Jaime Lannister._

_Jaime Lannister kissed me._

Both statements were impossible.

_Except they’re both true, _Brienne thought dazedly as Jaime led her toward the elevator, his fingers laced through hers.

_If we were in love, we’d be miserable,_ he’d said, utterly sincere. Like he’d said in the Quiet Isle Hospital. _I do know what it’s like to be in love, and it’s absolutely no fun, believe me. A lot of the time it’s miserable. _

_Cersei was punishing me … I probably would have gone back, once she’d decided I’d grovelled enough._

That was love, to Jaime Lannister. No wonder he said _We’re not in love with each other, thank the Seven._

_We’re not in love with each other, thank the Seven _and _I want to kiss you all the bloody time_. _I’ve been wanting to kiss you since Last Dark. _

_Brienne, you are the best person I know and the most important person in the world to me apart from Tyrion … When something good happens to me you’re the first person I want to tell and when something bad happens to me you’re the first person I want to hear from._

_I would ask you out in a hot second if I thought about you like that,_ he’d texted her, and explained that he didn’t _because you are my friend and I’m not a creep._

“Brienne?” Jaime frowned at her. “Are you alright? I didn’t – are you alright?”

“Yes, Jaime, I’m fine,” she assured him quickly. “I was just thinking about something.”

The elevator arrived and Jaime tugged her gently into it, punching the button for their floor. “Stag for your thoughts?”

“I was thinking that I’ve been wanting you to kiss me since … oh, Moat Cailin,” Brienne said, honestly but carefully. “I wish I’d known that you wanted to.”

Jaime grinned at her. “I didn’t want you to think I was the kind of creep who’d hit on his friend. And you weren’t interested.”

“Mmm.” Brienne studied him. _He’s absolutely sincere. _“Jaime, I thought you could never be … I mean, _look_ at me.”

“I am looking at you,” Jaime said. “I’m looking at you and thinking how much I really want to kiss you again, for maybe an hour this time, and how much I wish I’d known that you want too as well and that we could be friends and I could still kiss you.” He stepped in close to her and leaned up to press his lips against hers, just briefly, just gently. “We can, can’t we?”

“Yes,” Brienne promised him. “Jaime. I am your friend, and I will always be your friend. Alright? Whether you want to kiss me or not.”

The elevator stopped at their floor and Jaime towed her rapidly down the hallway to their suite. The minute the door closed behind his arms were around her again and his mouth on hers, more demanding this time, and _Mother’s mercy_ it felt dizzyingly good, and he was strong enough for her to just lean against him and then his lips left hers and he panted _Brienne, Brienne, Brienne _and he was kissing her cheek, her neck, and then her lips again. He pulled her to the couch and they fell onto it in a tangle of limbs and Jaime was on top of her and kissing her mouth and her neck and her mouth again and groaning _wench you taste wonderful you taste wonderful_ and of every possible thing Brienne had imagined this was better, this was so much better.

And then he stopped. “I’m sorry,” he panted in her ear.

Brienne tried, she _tried_ not to mind. _I’m sorry, I can’t do this after all_, he was going to say_. _“It’s alright,” she told him, patting his shoulder. “Jaime, it’s alright, I don’t –”

“I’m going to come in my pants in about a minute if we don’t slow down,” Jaime said, rendering her speechless. “Which, you know, if you just want to make out like this, is fine. But if you want to just go back to kissing, or if you want to do a little more, we need to cool it for a while.”

“No, I …” Brienne swallowed. “I don’t know what I want, Jaime, is that alright?”

“Of course it is.” He kissed her cheek, gently, and then sat up, pulling her with him into the circle of his arm. “Of course it’s alright. Come here, wench. Come here.”

She nestled against him. “Are you alright?” she asked hesitantly.

Jaime chuckled a little. “I’m not particularly comfortable. But it’s not a lot worse that I feel most times we watch TV together, so I’ll cope.”

“So it’s just … like you said. Because you’re … you’ve been … you haven’t …”

“Wench, it has nothing to do with how long it’s been since I jerked off and everything to do with how fucking wonderful you feel pressed up against me.” He kissed her cheek, once, twice, a third time. “Pretty much like always, but I didn’t want you to worry that I was going to start coming on to you.”

Brienne could feel her face burning. “Oh. Well, I … I …” She took a deep breath. “Feel about the same, I guess.”

“Wench,” Jaime breathed. He raised himself up to turn and press his lips to hers again. “Wench, wench.” He kissed the word deep into her mouth until her head was spinning. Brienne ran her fingers through his thick, soft hair and he moaned and shivered against her and kissed her again and then kissed his way around her neck and whispered _wench, my wench, _his breath gusting warm across her ear and making her shudder. He drew back a little, panting, and impulsively Brienne wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close again. Just for an instant before she realised what she was doing and let him go, but Jaime stayed pressed against her and kissed her jaw and her cheek and her temple and ran his hand up and down her side until she thought she’d lose her mind if he didn’t keep going all the way up to her breast or further down to her leg. _Jaime, Jaime, please, please_ she said into his next kiss and his hand was under her shirt and sliding up to cup her breast and _Mother’s mercy, Mother’s Mercy_ nothing had ever felt so good as Jaime’s fingers rubbing and stroking her nipple and it was absolutely insane and inconceivable that she was sprawled writhing on a couch while Jaime Lannister sucked on her lower lip as if it were some kind of sweet fruit and caressed her meagre breast but when Brienne opened her eyes Jaime was looking down at her with his eyes wide and dark and his lips swollen with how hard he’d been kissing her.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked hoarsely. “Say if you do, it’s alright, we can stop.”

Brienne shook her head. “I want … I’m not sure. Jaime.”

“Alright. Alright.” He kissed her again, gently, and Brienne realised he was slowing them both down. “Alright.”

“No, don’t, please,” she said, the words coming out without thought. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop. I need – I need –”

“Brienne,” Jaime said, and hauled her over to straddle his lap and he was strong enough to do so despite her size and if he wasn’t as big as Brienne he was big enough that she didn’t need to worry he couldn’t take her weight. She could feel his erection hard and hot against her thigh and then Jaime gripped her hips and moved her and it was right up against her where she was hot and throbbing and his head fell back and he groaned as if it felt as good for him as it did for her. He gasped and raised his head to look at her. “Like that?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” It wasn’t the sharp, precise touch of her own fingers calculated to rush her to release, it was a diffuse swelling pleasure that she couldn’t understand except that it was good _so good so good …_ Jaime’s hands were firm on her hips and he was pushing up against her, again and again, leaning up to press his lips to her breasts through her shirt, first one, then the other, then the first again. Every tug of his lips sent a sharp pang through her that magnified the heat rising and rising between her legs and she was close, so close, she was there – the sharp twist of release shook her, but Jaime didn’t stop and _oh, oh, oh _she was still rising and rising and it happened again, and then again, and Jaime said _just let go, Brienne, let go, let me, let go_ and oh she needed, she needed, she –

Pleasure broke over her like a king tide, wave after wave, washing her off her feet and tumbling her over and over as Jaime panted _Brienne, Brienne, Brienne_ and shuddered violently against her and the world went away except for how good she felt and how tightly Jaime held her and his voice in her ear and his hand in her hair and she was rising up again and _oh, oh, please, Jaime, please, Jaime, Jaime –_

The last wave broke over her, washing her away, and for a while she didn’t really know anything except that Jaime’s arms were around her, and she felt better than she had ever felt in her life. Slowly, she became aware that she was sprawled across Jaime’s lap, her face pressed against his shoulder, his arms tight around her waist.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Brienne said. Jaime chuckled and she felt him relax. “That was so lovely. Thank you. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Jaime said on a breath of a laugh. “I’m fucking terrific. Brienne. I wish I’d known … that we could do this, that you wanted to do this … Brienne.” His arms tightened around her and it was a warm feeling Brienne thought she could just dissolve into.

“As friends,” she said carefully.

“As friends,” Jaime agreed.

“Mmm.” Brienne pressed her face against his shoulder and gathered her courage. “Jaime. Do you remember what I said, about how you made me feel?”

He ran his fingers through her hair. “When you thought you were in love with me? Yes.”

“And … you said it was friendship. Is that how you feel, about me?”

He laughed again. “Brienne. You’re my friend, my best friend. if I was shipwrecked on the Stepstone Islands, I’d want you to be the person with me, except you’re the one person I’d trust to find me, so no, maybe not. Brienne, wench.” His arms tightened around her. “You’re the best person I know, and you believe that I’m maybe a better person than I am, and it turns out, I can be. And I want to be, because you think I can, but also because you make me think I can, and that makes me feel better about myself. I think?”

Brienne wriggled a little, and freed her arm so she could reach up to stroke his hair. Jaime hummed a little and leaned into her touch. He looked happy and relaxed and so beautiful it almost hurt to look at him. “Being with you makes me feel better about _myself_, too.”

He smiled, his eyes drifting closed. “It feels so good when you do that, wench. And I’m glad you feel better about yourself, because you should, because you’re just flat-out wonderful. And I’m glad that being with me makes you feel better, because all I want is to be with you, all the time. When I see something beautiful or interesting or funny, the first thing I want to do is tell you about it, because sharing it with you makes everything _more_ somehow. Except bad things, you make the bad things so much easier to stand. Having my arms around you is the best feeling in the world, except having your arms around me, sometimes when I hug you I just get ridiculously happy for no reason. And ridiculously hard, a lot of the time, but I guess it isn’t being a creep to feel turned on by your friend if they feel the same way?”

“It isn’t,” Brienne said. “And I do feel the same way.” She had to kiss him then, gentle and careful, feeling as if he might break or she might. “Are you happy? Being with me?”

“Being your friend is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, _yes_, wench, I’m happy.”

And alright, it wasn’t the declaration of love she’d sometimes day-dreamed about, like in the movies, except it sort of _was_, wasn’t it? Even without the word? Wasn’t it just exactly what he’d been telling her for months, if only she listened to him the right way? _Love is Cersei, who made him miserable. He doesn’t love me, because being with me makes him happy. _

_Oh, Jaime. _“Then I think maybe we _should_ stay married. As friends.”

His eyes opened. “Friends who can kiss each other?” Brienne nodded, and he smiled. “And make out on the couch?” Brienne nodded again, and Jaime’s smile grew wider. “Wench.” He leaned up to kiss her. “I’m going to make sure you enjoy being married to me _at least_ as much as I’m going to enjoy being married to you.”


	66. Jaime XXVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime thinks that married life is pretty good. NFSW

Being married to Brienne Tarth was even more perfect than Jaime had expected, because not only did he get to spend every day with her and wake up with her every morning and prattle nonsense at her until her eyes crinkled up at the corners and then a minute later she was laughing helplessly and saying _Jaime, you’re impossible_, but when the urge to kiss her came over him, he could, he _could_, and Brienne enjoyed it. She enjoyed him kissing her, and she enjoyed him touching her, and she seemed to like touching _him_, going from how often she did it and the little noises she made when she did. Which was fantastic, because all he really wanted to do all day was kiss her and touch her and feel her hands running over him.

She also seemed to be completely delighted when he told her how he felt about her, which was perfectly alright with Jaime, because talking to Brienne Tarth and talking _about_ Brienne Tarth were each two things he enjoyed immensely. _You have my favourite laugh_, he whispered to her, watching her amazing blue eyes turn soft with happiness. _Like you’re always trying not to, right up until you give in and do._ _Your eyes are a different shade of blue depending on the time of day. When I’m with you I feel stronger than I probably really am, but also that I don’t need to be strong. _

She smiled at him and whispered back _Me too, me too. _

When Brienne overcame her shyness enough to put her hand on his fly and say _Jaime, will you show me how_ and he found out how much better than his own hand hers really did feel he came so hard he thought he might actually have lost consciousness. _Wench, let’s see if I can make _you_ faint,_ he said when he’d regained the ability to speak, and an afternoon’s experimentation proved at least that he could certainly make her scream.

They ordered room service and ate and watched movies that they were too busy making out on the couch to pay attention to and fell asleep and woke up and did it all again. Jaime learned exactly how to kiss Brienne to make her sigh and how to kiss her to make her moan and precisely which touches and caresses made her gasp _Jaime, Jaime, please, please! _

Far from being appalled at how horny she made him, Brienne seemed to be pleased about it. The fact that they could have been doing all this _months_ ago if only Brienne had been confident enough to let him know she was interested in it was infuriating, so he told her over and over how good she tasted and how good her lips felt when he kissed her and how much he liked feeling her against him, all obvious strength and surprising gentleness _you make me so hard, Brienne, there were times I was in danger of coming in my pants right in front of you, you have no idea how much practice I got jerking off with my left hand when you stayed with me, I’m hard for you right now, you feel so good._

He really would have liked to take advantage of the supply of condoms the hotel considerately left in the bedside table, but a few days ago Brienne had never even kissed anyone and Jaime was absolutely not going to be the asshole who rushed her, and honestly just making out with her was pretty damn satisfying and giving him the best orgasms of his life and the way Brienne slumped bonelessly against him afterwards and mumbled _so lovely, Jaime, that was so lovely_ gave him some indication that she was pretty satisfied too.

The rest of the world intruded inevitably, of course. Tyrion let him know that he was going to have to give a statement to the Gold Cloaks when he got back to King’s Landing, Cersei having claimed to the entire weirnet that she and he had been breaking the law of the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and the North. The last two didn’t matter, since they’d never been together in them, but the Westerlands was going to be a problem. _Will you wait for me if they send me to jail, wench?_ he joked, feeling a bit sick to his stomach, and Brienne put her arms around him and ran her fingers through his hair and said _forever, Jaime, I’ll wait forever_ and fuck, she would, and he felt a bit better.

Joy Hill called and said was going to have to do at least one interview, that the media interest wasn’t dying down much and if he wanted to walk down the street without being chased by people with cameras and microphones in the foreseeable future he should get it all on record and answer all the questions in one go. Jaime agreed, reluctantly, and she said she’d get Ulwyck Uller again and Tyrion would probably have to be there as his lawyer and the whole prospect had Jaime’s stomach upset again but he’d have to do it, wouldn’t he?

Maester Luwin called, which Jaime was rather touched by even if he _was_ paying the man to care about his well-being. He ended up telling Luwin a lot more about Cersei than he had before, about the children, about how fucking frightened he was that everything being public was going to ruin Tommen and Myrcella’s lives. He felt drained and shaky after the phone-call, and ashamed of that, because, fuck, it was all his own fault after all or at least part of it, but Brienne just drew his head into her lap and found _Bedding and the City _on Weirflix as if it was perfectly normal that he felt as if his stomach was falling off the Hightower without the rest of him after spending an hour on the phone with his shrink talking about his incestuous adultery. _Let’s run away to Pentos, wench_, he said. _Or further. Somewhere no-one will ever find us. _Brienne laughed and agreed and they planned improbable escapades in the far east that Jaime knew he’d never act on because he couldn’t run away and leave Tyrion to deal with his mess, and he knew Brienne knew that, and the fact that she did warmed him through and through.

Later that day Brienne had a long phone conversation with her dad in the bedroom with the door closed, and Jaime sat on the couch and tried not to fret about what she was saying, because Selwyn Tarth probably believed in romance as much as his daughter had before Jaime set her straight, and Jaime doubted his new goodfather would be thrilled to hear that Brienne was basically settling for a permanent friends-with-benefits arrangement with a man all of Westeros now knew to be a cousin-fucker. Then she came out and handed the phone to him, and it turned out that he’d had nothing to worry about, Selwyn mainly being concerned with extracting another promise to look after his girl from Jaime, and making sure he knew they were always welcome in Evenfall if the paparazzi got too bad. His final firm _take care of yourself as well, goodson_ sent Jaime on another crying jag for some reason.

Brienne held him and stroked his hair until he was calm again and then said _I think you should take a nap, maybe _as if he were a toddler throwing a tantrum which would have irritated him except he was actually crushingly tired all of a sudden so he let her put him to bed. She wrapped herself around him and said _hush now, hush now_ and before she could say it a third time he was opening his eyes and it was night.

Brienne was still curled around him, boneless and limp in sleep. She shifted a little as Jaime turned over in the circle of her arms, settling back against him with a sigh. _Gods be good, is anything better than this? Than knowing someone will hold you while you sleep, will trust you to hold them? _

He held her until she stirred and woke and then ordered what Brienne declared to be a ridiculous amount of room service and made sure she ate plenty. She was starting to look more and more like her old self again, thank the Seven, but his heart still ached when he thought about how pale and almost frail she’d been at her sickest.

They went back to bed and to sleep and when Jaime woke the next morning he felt more like himself. When he told Brienne she smiled and said _I’ve been wearing you out_ and he told her she was welcome to wear him out any time she felt like it and it was about four hours later before they eventually crawled out of bed. Jaime told Brienne they should share a shower to conserve water but in the end they probably used more water than if they’d showered separately by the time he’d made her scream _Jaime, yes, that, that, yes Jaime yes_ twice more as the warm water streamed down all over her and the steam rose around them. Then he dried her off and carried her back to bed and ordered all her breakfast favourites from room service while she dozed. He woke her up to eat and then read several chapters of _The Soiled Knight_ while she slept again with her head in his lap. _This is perfect, perfect_, he thought, running his fingers through her hair. _Perfect. _

Brienne stirred and woke. “I really wish we didn’t have to go home tomorrow.”

_Let’s run away_, Jaime thought, but they couldn’t. _He_ couldn’t, at least. “We can come back,” he said, instead. “Or go other places. Or _and_ go other places.”

“Volantis?” Brienne suggested. “For the waters?”

“That’s perfect,” Jaime said. “You’re perfect.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Who would have thought, when you picked me up at Moat Cailin Airport, that it would have been the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”

Brienne smiled. “Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the last time.”

So he did.


	67. Brienne XXVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The non-honeymoon is over ...

“Jaime, have you seen my sunglasses?” Brienne checked under the couch cushions again. “Did you pack them with your stuff by mistake?”

“I’ll look,” he called back from the bedroom. “We’ll get you another pair, wench –”

“I like those ones.” She opened the drawers in the coffee table on the off-chance they’d found their way into one of them. “Dad gave them to me.”

“Then we’ll find them,” Jaime said, and the next second there was an enormous clatter from the bedroom.

Brienne went to the door to see that he’d upended his suitcase over the bed. “Jaime. What are you _doing_?”

“Looking for your sunglasses,” Jaime said, as if it was all completely normal. _Because for him it is all completely normal. _Because he was a ridiculous, adorable man.

Brienne sighed, and went over to pick up the suitcase and start repacking it. “Jaime. There might have been a more tidy way for you to look for them?”

“Less efficient,” Jaime argued.

“I really don’t think –”

“Oh, fuck, I forgot about this.” Jaime flung himself down on the bed in the midst of his crumpled clothes and held a small velvet box out to her. “I was going to give it to you in White Harbour but then what happened … happened.”

Brienne took it. “What is it?”

“I wanted to get you something nice, after all the shit that Cersei orchestrated I thought you deserved it. I was going to go with three dozen roses but your dad said you hated them, so ...” He nodded towards the box.

“I just …” And oh, Seven Hells, how could she put it so he wouldn’t be reminded of how she looked, how people saw her? “There was …”

“An asshole, your dad told me. He said you cleaned his clock. And actually, Brienne, I’d like to give you roses every day until you forget about that little shit and just think about how much I like being friends with you when you see them, but for now …” He put his hand over hers on the box, gentle pressure from the first few fingers of his maimed right hand. “I hope you like this.”

Brienne opened the box. It was a ring, with a deep golden lustre that could only be real gold, a mermaid, curled around to reach for her own tail, with a brilliant blue gemstone between her hands and the fins of her tail. The detail was so good Brienne could see the scales of the mermaid’s tail, could see that she was smiling. “Oh, Jaime.”

“It’s so that if you get kidnapped by merfolk pirates they’ll know to take good care of you,” Jaime said. He took the ring from her fingers, captured her hand, and slipped it on her finger, above the wedding ring. Brienne’s eyes filled with tears and she tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. “Hey,” Jaime said. “Hey, if you don’t like it, it’s fine, I’ll get you something else –"

“Don’t you dare,” Brienne said fiercely. “It’s beautiful. It’s perfect.”

“But you’re crying.”

Jaime sounded so puzzled that there was nothing for Brienne to do but lean into him and kiss him and run her fingers through his gorgeous hair and try to kiss everything she felt into his mouth because she didn’t have words for it and she was crying too hard to speak even if she had. _Jaime, Jaime_ were all the words she could manage. _Jaime_.

“Hey, it’s alright, it’s alright,” Jaime said against her mouth. “Brienne. It’s alright, you’re safe, I’m here.” Which made her cry harder, and Seven Hells she needed to get herself under control before she upset him, given everything he’d been going through, but actually the way his arms were strong around her and he stroked her hair so gently made her feel as if she could let go instead, because he was there, he had her, if she fell he would catch her and if she fell apart he would hold her together. He kissed the tears from her cheeks and wiped her dripping nose with his sleeve and held her and eventually she managed to calm herself down.

“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Jaime kissed her temple. “Brienne, I feel like you might be upset about something. Is there anything you need me to do?”

Brienne shook her head. “It wasn’t sad crying. I was just … a bit overwhelmed, I think.”

“What do you need?”

She sniffed. “To wash my face and help you clean up all this mess.”

Jaime chuckled. “I’ll clean it up. You find your sunglasses.” 

The sunglasses were eventually discovered behind the television, Jaime’s belongings were once again crammed into his suitcase, and they checked out and went to the airport. Jaime had booked first class, of course, but Brienne had come to the conclusion that she was going to have to pick her battles about his extravagance and insisting on spending the flight crammed into an economy seat that would have been comfortable for someone a foot shorter than she was not one she felt the need to fight.

Jaime’s phone squawked when he turned it back on as the plane’s wheels touched the tarmac at the Aegon Targaryen Memorial Airport just outside King’s Landing. His lips thinned as he checked it. “So, Peck says there’s some media attention. If you get off first, Peck can get you into the car – ”

“Is that what you want me to do?”

He gave her a quick smile and reached out to take her hand. “Wench, I want to have your hand to hang on to while a dozen sharks shove cameras and microphones in my face and ask me how long I spent bedding my cousin and other questions I don’t want to answer, but you don’t deserve to put up with them.”

Brienne turned her hand upwards to hold onto his. “You don’t need to face it alone. If you don’t want to.”

His fingers tightened. “I _don’t_ want to.”

“Alright then,” Brienne said with a calm she didn’t feel. “So what if they take my picture? If they say horrible things, I just won’t read them.”

“Wench, I do not deserve you,” Jaime said fervently.

She kept a tight clasp on his hand as they walked down the companionway and tried not to clutch it convulsively when the reporters and paparazzi came into view. _Be calm. Be strong. Be strong for Jaime. _

“Just look straight ahead and keep walking,” Jaime said, and then the press pack was on them.

_Jaime, Jaime! _they were shouting, and Brienne looked straight ahead and kept walking and held Jaime’s hand firmly in hers. _Jaime, what do you have to say to your cousin’s allegations? Obella Sand on _The Sand Snakes Say_ claims to have proof you’re the father of her children, is that true? The _Gulltown Gossip_ is reporting that you’ve entered into a sham marriage to cover up your ongoing relationship with Cersei Lannister, do you have any comment? Is this your wife? Do you have anything to say about the allegations she seduced you into a relationship during your recovery? Have you been charged with sexual misconduct? Are you under investigation? Did your wife know about your incestuous affair? _

And then _Brienne, Brienne, is there any truth to the _Eyrie Inquirer _story that you’ve agreed to an open relationship with the Kingslayer? Did you know about his relationship with his cousin? Doesn’t it disgust you? Did you ever have a threesome with them? Brienne, Brienne! Are you a lesbian, is that why you’re happy with a sham marriage? Do you plan to use the publicity to campaign to be the next Evenstar? What are your political ambitions? Brienne! _

Then they were through, and Peck had collected their baggage, and they were in the car and the doors were closed and Peck pulled away from the kerb.

“Alright?” Jaime asked, and Brienne realised she had his hand in a white-knuckled grip.

Her hand started shaking when she let go, and she folded it with her other in her lap. “Do you have to put up with that all the time?”

“Not that bad, usually. You’ve seen, the past few months. I can usually just go about my life. But …” He shrugged. “Sex sells, scandal sells, sex-scandals _especially_ sell. Changing your mind about being married to me, wench? I wouldn’t blame you.”

She rubbed her sweaty palm dry on her knee and reached out to take his hand again. “Never,” she promised.

There were more reporters outside Jaime’s apartment building, shoving cameras against the windows of the car as Peck drove into the underground carpark. _Alright, so, we both have a lot of television-watching ahead of us and we can get groceries and take-away delivered. _

As it turned out, Peck had stocked the fridge for them. Jaime made them omelettes while Brienne unpacked and did laundry and raised her eyebrows over how many of Jaime’s clothes were dry-clean only. They ate, and watched the latest remake of _Robin of the Kingswood _and unanimously agreed it was objectively terrible despite Garlan Tyrell and Lynesse Hightower’s best efforts to elevate the material. 

_This is married life_, Brienne thought suddenly. _Not a luxury hotel with bellhops and room-service. This is it. This is real. I am at home with my husband, Jaime Lannister. _

_With my husband who tells me that he can’t possibly be in love with me because being with me makes him happy and because he wants to be with me all the time, forever. _And, alright, at some point she was going to have to address that, if he didn’t work it out for himself, but for now, if Jaime wanted to say they were _best friends_, Brienne could live with that. She knew what he meant by the words, and it was everything she felt about him, and if she called it _love_ and he called it _friendship_, the important thing was that it was the same, and it was real, for both of them.

“Stag for your thoughts?” Jaime asked softly, kissing her hair.

“Just thinking about how odd this is, and how happy I am,” Brienne said. “If you had told me a year ago that I’d be married to a movie star, I would have laughed.”

“Do you mind if we wait until all the nonsense dies down a bit before we have a cloaking ceremony and make it really officially-official?” Jaime asked. “I mean, it’s formal, now, it’s binding and everything, but … I’d like to do it properly. In a Sept, even. Is there one at Evenfall?”

“Just a little one.”

“I’d like to do it there,” Jaime said. “If that’s alright with you. Your dad can cater the party. And you _will_ have to dance with me.”

“We can do that,” Brienne said. She leaned up to kiss him. “We can do all of that, if it makes you happy.”

“It does,” Jaime said softly, and if he’d ever been more beautiful than he was right then, Brienne couldn’t remember it. “Brienne, it really does.”


	68. Jaime XXVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has some things to deal with. Slightly NSFW. Chapter warning for panic attack.

If there was anything more embarrassing than having to explain to the practically teenage Maester Pylos that he needed to be tested for every sexually-transmitted disease known to humanity, Jaime wasn’t sure he wanted to know about it. He gave blood and got swabbed and endured a lecture about unprotected intercourse that he already fucking knew, thank you very much, it was just that _Robert never touches me anymore, Jaime, he doesn’t want me and I don’t want him, just you_ and he’d believed her, because they were in love and meant for each other and true to each other and that was how it had always been.

So now he had to listen to Pylos explain the correct way to put on a condom as if _that_ was the way he was stupid, well, _fine_, at least being irritated about it gave him something to focus on besides his roiling stomach. 

Things with the Gold Cloaks went better than Jaime felt he had a right to have expected, in large part because Cersei hadn’t started filming her own sexual encounters until after she’d moved to King’s Landing. So, there were copies of Cersei’s recordings on the hard-drive hooked up to the camera she’d set up – and Tyrion had been right about the blackmail, Aurane Waters was one of those who confirmed it – but only of what had happened in the Crownlands. Cousins could even marry in the Crownlands, with dispensation, and bedding one wasn’t against Crownlands law.

Jacelyn Bywater, a tall man with a square jaw and sceptical, deep-set eyes, did ask him about Lannisport, but Tyrion had prepared Jaime for that and he was able to honestly answer that he hadn’t been with Cersei like that in the Westerlands since they were both fifteen. So he’d been a minor, and so had she, and that made the legal situation a little more complicated but Tyrion said, better for him overall and he wouldn’t go to jail.

Jaime felt a little sick and shaky to know just how many recordings there were – him and Cersei, Cersei and so many others. Bywater asked him if he wanted copies of the ones with him, or to watch them, and Jaime shook his head. There was no need for a visual reminder of – fuck, he could hardly remember what it would be a visual reminder of, he didn’t _want_ to remember – Cersei on top of him, pulling his hair to move his mouth to exactly where she wanted it, panting _Jaime I need, I need, those tickets, promise me you’ll get them_ –

He managed to get out of the Gold Cloak’s station and past the paps and into the car without throwing up, although it was a near run thing and his hands were shaking as he found his phone and then Maester Luwin’s number. _It’s happening again_ and fuck his head was pounding and he was absolutely having a heart attack this time and he dropped his phone and threw up across the back seat of the car. _Peck get me home_ he managed to say and then just lost track of where he was without even trying to. The car stopped and Brienne was there but Jaime knew that he himself wasn’t, even as she helped him out of the car and into the elevator and into the apartment.

When he came back he was in his own bed and Brienne was gently stroking his hair, looking down at him with such a tender expression he wanted to cry. And it was _Brienne_, so fuck it, he could cry if he wanted to, his father wasn’t there to _thrash some manhood_ into him. All those years when he’d felt like if he ever let himself weep he’d never be able to stop until he was back in that post-Aerys hole, and either it had always been a lie or it had become one, because Brienne just wrapped her arms around him until the tears stopped. _Wench, I’m a mess, I’m sorry, _he told her and she hushed him and carded his hair until he felt well enough to get up and lie on the couch and listen to her scoffing at the implausibility of the latest episode of _Bedding and the City. _

He had to talk about it to Maester Luwin, of course, because apart from the fact that he _really_ didn’t want to feel like that ever again, it would be a disaster if it happened on a film set and Joy had managed to find another couple of small roles for him, later in the year, after _Once Upon A Time In Dorne_, provided that didn’t fall through. That was _not_ fun, admitting the ways in which he’d failed to help Cersei knowing that Luwin had probably been among those who’d seen the awful pictures of Cersei being carried out of her house in a stupor. Luwin used words like _boundaries_ and _respect_ and _communication_ until Jaime cut him off and pointed out that he wasn’t talking about friendship, that wasn’t what he’d had with Cersei _at all_, that was what he had with Brienne.

_Mmhmm_, Luwin said, and made a note, and sent him home with a reading list.

So alright, he lay on the couch with his head in Brienne’s lap while she watched _Sunspear Vice_ – Arys Dickhead hadn’t yet kissed his partner after all, they were obviously saving it for the season finale – and read _Eight Signs Your Relationship Is Unhealthy_, and sure, he’d worked out a while ago that his relationship with Cersei hadn’t been particularly good for him, and _Loving An Alcoholic,_ which actually made a few things clearer than they had been, so score one for Luwin he guessed.

The next was nearly as thick as his thumb, called _Components of Love_, although Jaime got the point Maester Luwin was making within the first ten pages. _Yes, alright, Luwin_, _Cersei and I had passion in common but all the commitment was on my side and we were never what this book defines as intimate, I get it. If she was ever really in love with me, that ended a long time ago, and whatever it was that I felt, love I suppose, that was for someone who didn’t really exist._

He read on. _Feelings of closeness and attachment to each other, liking, got it, that’s friendship … committed partners keep their promises to each other, are loyal, and support each other, _well, that was friendship too, that was him and Brienne. His wench would die before she’d let him down and she’d learnt to trust him to look after her when she needed it and the Stranger take him if he’d fail her. He flipped to the diagram at the front of the book again. _Commitment plus intimacy, companionate_, well, that was a nice word, _Brienne is my companion_, it was as nice as _friend_ really, so good. He could certainly live without passion, which the book said was _strong sexual feelings_, he could live without what he’d felt for Cersei, especially since it turned out he could be friends, _companions_, with Brienne and still spend hours kissing her and touching her and making her moan and shake and cry his name against his ear.

Just thinking about it made his jeans a little tighter and made him hope _Sunspear Vice_ would be over soon. He wondered if Brienne would consider it an unreasonable distraction from the professional and romantic tribulations of Anus Zitface if he tugged her down to kiss her for a while, and Crone’s cunt, just imagining it had him already hard to the point of discomfort. He wanted, _fuck_, he wanted –

_Gods be good._ Jaime stared at the book in his hands. _Gods be good. _Because how he felt when he kissed Brienne’s sweet plump mouth and she ran her hands over his back and her fingers through his hair – how he felt when she unzipped his fly and took his cock in her hand and his mind went absolutely blank of everything except how good it felt – how he felt when she pressed against him, hips rocking, moaning her pleasure in his ear –

_Strong sexual feelings_ pretty much summed it up.

He stared at the diagram. _Intimacy plus passion plus commitment._

_Consummate love._

Well, alright, but _no_, because the way he felt about Brienne didn’t have much in common with how he’d felt about Cersei except for the _strong sexual feelings_ part, he didn’t hate feeling it for one thing and it didn’t make him feel like he absolutely deserved every vicious smear in the tabloids, even if they were inaccurate. It made him feel _good_, actually, about the world and about his life in general and not just the bit of it that was being married to Brienne. It was nothing like the kind of love he’d felt for Cersei and just thinking it might be was making his stomach upset –

_Crone’s cunt._

_Nothing like the _kind_ of love …_

And alright, alright, he was still breathing, the tightness in his chest was easing, he was not about to vomit any more, and he was definitely still _here, _so that was all good.

“Brienne?” he ventured.

“Shhh,” Brienne said, running her fingers through his hair. “I think they’re really going to kiss this time.”

Jaime turned his head to watch Arys Twatnose gazing longingly into his co-star’s eyes. “He’s imagining she’s Arianne Martell.”

“Don’t ruin it,” Brienne said warningly.

Arys tore himself reluctantly away, the credit sequence started, and Brienne sighed and turned off the television. “Can I talk now?” Jaime asked.

“Yes, Jaime, you can talk now.”

“This, uh.” He held the book up. “This book. Do you think there’s more than one kind of love?”

She shrugged. “Sure. I mean, going off the movies, there has to be, right? There’s _Volantis_ love and _When Duncan Met Rohanne_ love and _The Hunchback Of The Sept of Baelor_ love.”

“Right. So, uh. A person might feel one of those for one person and then a completely different one for a different person?” _Still fine_, he could still breathe and his hands weren’t shaking, so, alright, good. And fuck, he was worried about having a panic attack talking about love, so maybe Tyrion had been completely right about Cersei all along, from the very beginning.

“They could,” Brienne agreed. “Like on _Bedding and the City _when Arianne’s character couldn’t decide between Tion Frey and Laswell Peake.” She smiled down at him. “And then bought eight more pairs of shoes instead of picking either of them.”

“I remember that. She really wanted Laswell but she didn’t want a long-distance relationship.” Jaime paused, and then held the book up again. “So, this book? It says I’m in love with you. Do you mind? If I am? I can try and stop if you do.”

“Does it change how you feel about me?” Brienne asked, still stroking his hair as if he hadn’t said anything terrible at all.

“I hope not?” Jaime closed his eyes for a moment. “I mean, I don’t think so. But I don’t – I don’t exactly have a lot of experience or a great track record when it comes to being in love.”

“I don’t, either,” Brienne said. “But, you know, I’m pretty sure how I feel about you, and that it’s love. And I did sort of suspect you might be a bit confused on the topic, what with all the declarations of wanting to spend the rest of your life with me and being happier than you’d ever been and how often you try and wrangle me into bed. Why did you think I decided to stay married to you?”

“I – I thought we were friends. And I liked it so much – it made me so happy. But if we’re not – what’s going to happen?”

“Nothing.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead, then his cheek, and then, so gently, his lips. “We are friends. We’re not going to stop being friends. Alright? We’re friends, and we love each other, and we’re married.”

“I don’t really know how to do this,” Jaime confessed. “Be in love, I mean, and not be … how it was.”

“You’ve been doing fine so far.” Brienne kissed him again. “Why don’t we just keep doing what we’ve been doing?”

“You’re getting really good at this kissing thing,” Jaime said against her mouth, and she chuckled. “Why don’t you carry me to bed in your big strong arms and we can do some more of some of the things we’ve been doing?”

And she did.


	69. Jaime XXVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime waits for things to go wrong. NSFW

Alright, so he was in love with Brienne, or loved her, if there was a difference.

For about three weeks Jaime waited for it to just all go pear-shaped, waited to start feeling tense and apprehensive when he heard Brienne’s voice and slightly sick when she touched him, but it didn’t happen. Nothing at all changed, except she finally let him coax her into letting him put his mouth on her and he got a noise complaint from the neighbours. Well, alright, he’d invest in soundproofing or they’d move, because he certainly intended to do _that_ again as often as she wanted. But he still felt the same sudden bubble of happiness when she came into the room and he still wanted to tell her everything about what he’d read or heard or done that day and he still felt a warm contentment when her arms were around him and his were around her, so alright, maybe she’d been right, maybe Luwin was right, maybe being in love wasn’t about being miserable after all. Maybe he’d been wrong and a complete idiot for most of his life.

_Maybe Cersei was really fucking bad for me._

_Maybe we were really fucking bad for each other._

And _that_ was several sessions with Maester Luwin that left him drained and shaking and needing very badly to spend a long time lying next to Brienne on the couch while she stroked his hair and rubbed his back. Which would have made him feel fucking terrible and useless as a friend, let alone a husband, except that whenever Brienne woke in the night she put her hand on his shoulder and said _Jaime, I had a bad dream_ whether he’d awakened or not, so, alright, maybe there were times when they each needed someone to wrap them up in a hug and maybe it felt as good for her to be there when he needed her as it did for him to be there for her.

And Brienne was just glowingly happy all the time, until it hurt to look at her, but in a good way that made Jaime want to keep doing it, possibly forever. He let her pick the movies for a week, sat through _When Duncan Met Rohanne_ again, and _My Big Fat Dornish Wedding_ and _You’ve Got A Raven_ and _My Best Friend’s Bedding_ and took careful mental notes, but when he sat next to her and took her hand and started in on his carefully prepared speech Brienne smiled and told him _you’ve said all this_ and kissed him and he completely lost his train of thought, but Brienne didn’t seem to mind.

“You should take a trip,” he told her the next morning. “Just for a day. Moat Cailin, or Lannisport, or somewhere.”

Brienne frowned. “Why?”

“So I can chase you through the airport to stop you getting on the plane, of course,” Jaime said, and Brienne laughed and said _you ridiculous man_ so tenderly he could hardly breathe and kissed him until they were both panting.

Tyrion and Shae invited them over for dinner, which at Tyrion’s place meant take-away from a five-comet restaurant. While they were waiting for the food, Tyrion asked Jaime to help him move the sofa-bed in the one of the spare rooms. Jaime pointed out that it made more sense for Brienne to help him, and the door closed itself on them and the latch slipped so they were stuck until someone noticed they were missing, but there was a couch and neither of them found the wait any kind of hardship. Jaime had made Brienne come once and was working on a second when Tyrion flung open the door with profound apologies.

And closed it again hurriedly at Jaime’s snarled _Knock, little brother_ and Brienne gasped _Jaime, Jaime, what?_ and then stiffened and shuddered and pressed her face against his neck with a moan. 

They made it downstairs before the take-away was completely cold, Brienne relaxed and pink and Jaime really more worked up than he wanted to be for dinner with his brother but at least relieved they’d managed to stop before Jaime ended up obvious damp patch on his crotch. Clearly, from the glances Bronn and Shae shot them, Tyrion hadn’t kept to himself the fact that he’d walked in on Jaime with his fingers inside Brienne’s pants whispering _come for me, come on, come for me _in her ear.

And it was made crystal clear when Tyrion raised his glass. “A toast. To the happy couple.”

Bronn raised his own. “Long may they fuck.” He drank. “Although not for longer than four hours or seek advice from a maester.”

Well, alright. Tyrion had had more women than Jaime had ever bothered to keep track of, Shae’s previous career was as a sex worker and Bronn … was Bronn. Jaime wasn’t about to be embarrassed that he was attracted to _his wife_.

_My wife, my wife_ he thought and felt dizzy, and held Brienne’s hand under the table as they ate YiTish beef and lemon pigeon and listened to Brienne and Shae talking about dresses for the Cloaking Ceremony. Shae had a designer she thought Brienne should visit and Brienne hunched in on herself and nodded, so Jaime leaned into her and whispered that she should wear jeans and a Mance Rayder T-shirt if she wanted, and they’d marry in front of a weirwood tree with no-one but her dad and Tyrion if she preferred, and whatever she wore he’d be tearing it off her the second they were in private.

_Jaime don’t say such things,_ Brienne said, blushing, but when dinner was over and they were in the car on the way home her hand slid up his thigh and higher. _Peck, park and get lost,_ Jaime managed to say, and then Brienne was straddling him, her hand working his cock torturously slowly, her other arm under his shoulders, holding him up so she could kiss him fiercely. _I’ll wear a dress if you want, _she said, stroking him. _Tell me what you want._

This. _This, this,_ and he didn’t know if he’d managed to get the word out, but she kept going, firm and slow and it was so good, and he couldn’t get any leverage to thrust against her hand because she had him in her strong and gentle grasp but that was alright because it was good, it was so good, and he wanted _more_ and _harder_ but at the same time it was just perfect the way she was holding him so strongly and touching him so gently and it was all so good and he was rising slowly and inexorably towards his release and he wanted it to be faster and he wanted to stay here forever and _so good so good_ …

When he tipped over the edge and came it was slow and soft and Brienne stroked him through it, holding him up against her and kissing him over and over again and whispering _like that,_ _so good, like that_ against his mouth. She shifted to cradle him in her lap as Jaime fumbled his cock away again and thanked the Seven for windows tinted beyond the legal maximum.

“This being in love thing is pretty terrific,” he said sleepily.

Brienne stroked his hair. “We should go upstairs.”

“In a minute.” Jaime turned his face into her neck. “Wear a dress or not, I don’t care, but you should go with Shae. She gets her stuff made by Alerie Hightower. If you want to wear jeans, she’ll make you the best pair of jeans you’ve ever had. Where do you want to go for our honeymoon?”

Brienne chuckled. “We already had our honeymoon.”

“No, we had our non-honeymoon,” Jaime corrected. “We should have another non-honeymoon, too. After I do this thing with Uller. If we go away for a few weeks after, stuff should die down a bit.”

“Dorne was lovely,” Brienne said. “But if we’re just going to have to stay inside all the time because of the press, we might as well just do that here.”

“Skagos,” Jaime said. “We can get a seaplane to Sisterton and join the boat there. If we time it right there’s no way any paps can follow us in time to inveigle their way onto the cruise. I mean, I’m interesting right now, but I don’t think I’m interesting enough for Baelish to spring for a helicopter charter to chase a cruise ship to Widow’s Watch or Karhold. We could go to Hardhome after, maybe up the Antler and see the Fist of the First. And then back down to the Wall, hire a car, and drive home.”

“I _have_ always wanted to see the Wall.”

“Me too,” Jaime said. “And the unicorns on Skagos. And maybe we’ll find Abel in the Haunted Forest.”

“Jaime,” Brienne said. “Abel’s been dead for years.”

“Well, someone has to haunt the Haunted Forest,” Jaime pointed out. “Maybe it’s him.”

“Jaime, you’re impossible,” Brienne said, but she was laughing. “Alright. We’ll go north, and look for unicorns and for the King-beyond-the-Wall.”


	70. Brienne XXVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne escape King's Landing.

Brienne looked out of the car window at the empty sidewalk with surprise. “Jaime, the press – they’re gone.”

He grinned at her, extremely smug. “They’re at the airport.”

Her stomach sank. “They know? What if they –”

“Not the seaport, the _airport_. Look.”

He held out his phone and Brienne took it. The Ravengram app was open, _#Lannistarth_ in the search bar. “Lannistarth?”

“Lannister-Tarth.”

Brienne scrolled down the page. _bird@spider _had posted a picture of Jaime’s car, licence plate clearly visible, with the mud-gate in the background. _boy@spider_ claimed to work for Staunton-Rook Air and to have seen Jaime Lannister’s name on a passenger manifest for a flight to Lannisport. _littlebird@spider_ said he worked at Lefford Hall in Golden Tooth and the whole hotel had been booked out for a cloaking ceremony being held tomorrow. _smallgirl@spider_ worked at Redwyn’s and had seen #BrienneBlueKnight buying a white dress.

“But none of this is true,” she said in bewilderment, and Jaime laughed until tears came to his eyes.

“Half the paps are staking out the Staunton-Rook departure gate, a quarter are racing to Lannisport to ambush us as we get off the plane, and the rest are frantically trying to bribe the staff at Lefford Hall for access and information.”

“But won’t they find out straight away that there’s no booking?”

“There _is_ a booking,” Jaime said. “It’s just no-one is going to be there. Tyrion’s non-honeymoon present to us, and don’t worry, he can afford it. Lefford Hall will invite all the clients of the Golden Tooth food bank and Tyrion will get some good publicity and a tax-write-off out of it.”

“Oh.” _So this is my life now, when planning a holiday takes on the dimensions of Griff movies. Well, alright. _

Jaime had finished his interview with Ulwyck Uller the day before, the last of three days of talking and filming that Tyrion had insisted on supervising as Jaime’s lawyer and Jaime had wanted Brienne there for. There’d been two days of filming without interviews before that, of Jaime training at the _Dawnstar_ gym with Sandor, flipping an omelette with a spatula adapted for his weak right hand, even watching television with Brienne. _To break up the visuals_, Uller explained, so alright, Brienne’s life now included a camera crew watching her watch the fourth and, according to Jaime, the best, remake of _The Thing That Came In The Night_ with Jaime pretending to hide behind her at the scary parts.

Jaime had insisted he wasn’t going to go on the record about Cersei’s children and that the interview would be over the second Uller so much as mentioned them, but there was a lot that was already in the public domain thanks to Cersei’s liveraven and Uller asked about all of it. Jaime held Brienne’s hand and answered _yes, it’s true, I suppose, I don’t really remember when it started but we were children, fooling around_ and _I tried to be there for her, however she needed me to be_ and _no, I didn’t know about her other lovers, no, I haven’t seen the tapes_.

_I don’t know when I fell in love with her, I just always was. She was unhappy … I wanted to do whatever would help her, whatever she said would help her feel better. _

_I haven’t seen her in more than a year, I had no idea her drinking had gotten so bad. _

Brienne had firmly declared that they were taking a break when she felt he needed one, and brooked no arguments from Uller about it. The journalist no doubt would have loved to have footage of Jaime breaking down or having an anxiety attack, cementing his nomination for an Iron Throne in the documentary category, but if Jaime had to do this, Brienne was determined he didn’t have to be humiliated in the process.

Uller wanted to interview the two of them together, too, and Jaime’s agent said it was a good idea, so, alright, Brienne’s life now included talking on Westeros-wide television about being in love with Jaime Lannister. _No_, she said, _I don’t think less of him, of course not. I feel very sorry for Cersei Lannister, I haven’t seen the liveraven but it’s clear she’s a very unhappy woman and addiction of any kind is a difficult illness to conquer. I wish her all the best. No, I don’t know what she said about me on Ravengram, and I don’t care. The scar? _

She’d paused, and Jaime and leaned in and kissed her right cheek and told Uller _she got it being a damn hero, ask Commander Snow of the Night’s Watch if you want details_.

_I’m not sure exactly when I started to fall in love with him, it might have been when he wanted to make Vargo Hoat say thapphires_. And then they both had to explain about that, talking over each other _she saved my life_ and _he was incredibly brave through it all_ and _honestly it took me far too long to realise the reason I wanted to hear her voice every single day. _

And then Jaime had laughed and laughed and said _I actually had to marry her to realise I was in love, how fucked up is that?_

They would be on the _North Star _on their way past the Grey Cliffs when the interview aired and Brienne was glad of it, she had no desire to see herself on the screen even if she was learning to believe Jaime when he said he loved to look at her face.

There were zero paparazzi or journalists at the seaplane port. They were the only passengers on the flight, booked as _Gerion Hill_ and _Visenya Storm_ – really, she had to stop letting Jaime make the bookings for things – and if the turbulence was a little rough over the Mountains of the Moon, the way Jaime grabbed her hand for reassurance and said _save me if we crash, wench_ with one of his sharp smiles made the shaking worth it.

They had to sprint from the seaplane to the dock to make the departure time and the gangplank was hauled up behind them immediately.

And they were safe. Brienne felt it like a weight lifting from her shoulders, and from Jaime’s broad smile he felt the same, for all he was more used to being the centre of a media storm. “Wench,” he said, dropped his bag, and leaned up to kiss her until she was dizzy and no longer caring that they were standing on the _North Star’s_ deck in full view of the other passengers and the crew. “Let’s unpack,” he whispered in her ear. “And undress.”

When they reached their cabin, Jaime didn’t give her time to do more than unzip her suitcase before he had her up against the wall, kissing her neck and her cheek and letting his breath brush her ear – _unfair, unfair, he knows what that does to me_. “Jaime, wait,” she panted.

He stopped immediately, leaned back and looked up into her eyes. “What is it? Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes,” she assured him. “I just wanted to ask you … I mean, it never seemed exactly the time with everything, but … do you want to have sex?”

Jaime grinned at her. “I thought I was making that quite clear.”

“No, I mean … proper sex. Like …” Her face felt like it was on fire and she was sure she was beet red with embarrassment. “Bedding. Intercourse.”

“Brienne.” He leaned up to kiss her again, just a brush of his lips against hers. “When you’re ready, yes. I think I could make sure you enjoyed it, and I’m sure I’d enjoy it. But this is all pretty great too, as far as I’m concerned.”

“So it’s enough? For now, I mean?”

“It’s enough for as long as you want it to be,” Jaime said. “And stop worrying about what’s _proper sex_ or not. I’ve had noise complaints from my neighbours, that’s how proper the sex we’ve been having is.”

Brienne clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror. “The neighbours? Oh, Seven Hells, Jaime, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I’m so loud.”

He laughed like a loon and tugged her close. “I love that you’re loud. It’s incredibly hot, and it’s excellent for my ego. I give my neighbours smug smiles when I see them in the elevator.” He kissed her cheek and trailed his lips down to her jaw. “Stop over-thinking things, wench. Have I given you any indication that I don’t enjoy what we do, or want to keep doing it, a lot?”

“No,” Brienne said. “But I wasn’t sure if you were just being nice.”

“You’re the nice one, remember? I’m the cynical reprobate.”

“What if I’m …” She took a deep breath. “What if I’m bad at it?”

“You caught on to kissing in about thirty seconds, remember?” Jaime shrugged. “So it’ll be a bit awkward and you might feel weird about it and I’ll worry whether or not you’re alright until we get the hang of it. Brienne. I’m not going to stop wanting to touch every inch of your amazing body if the first time you ever bed anyone it’s me and you’re not a porn star straight out of the gate, alright? I’ve only bedded one woman myself, I might be a disappointment to _you_. Now.” He kissed her cheek. “Let’s unpack, and hope that gives me a chance to get myself a bit under control, and go up on deck and enjoy the view.”

So they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry I’ve gotten behind in answering comments, please be assured I read them all and treasure every one.


	71. Ravens IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a private chatroom, somewhere on Ravengram

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth *How* many people?_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth 200 at least. Maybe 300. We’ll cover costs at our end, just need to know if we need to ship food over. _

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth No I’ll just need a month’s warning to put the orders in_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth That can be done. They’ll be in the north for weeks yet and then Jaime is shooting in Dorne not long after. Is Brienne’s dress done?_

_Shae@Chataya Yes. I picked it up from Alerie yesterday. Cloaks too. _

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth Are you sure Brienne wants a dress?_

_Shae@Chataya She’ll want this one, trust me. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Peck will make sure Jaime’s formal wear is dry-cleaned and ready once we have a date_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth Not that I don’t want to see my girl cloaked at home, but you all know that there are no hotels here, right? People will have to stay at Storm’s End and get the ferry over and back again afterwards_

_Bronn@LannisterStokeworth got it covered_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth how exactly?_

_Bronn@LannisterStokeworth Ever heard of glamping? Starpike Supplies can cover everything we need and they include set up_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth How much is this going to cost?_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth I keep telling you, goodfather-in-law, I’m excessively rich. Also Brienne will be quite rich once the court enforces the judgement in her civil suit against Petyr Baelish, and Jaime is not exactly impoverished. _

[Ygritte@Freefolk has joined the chat]

_Ygritte@Freefolk bad news the mance is missing_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth Have you reported it?_

_Ygritte@Freefolk Not that kind of missing, just his usual kind. My cousin Tormund is trying to find him but his off-season job is guiding southron jackanapes through the Haunted Forest so he doesn’t have a lot of time. _

[Ygritte@Freefolk has left the chat]

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Well I’m sure there’s some other whining folk-singer that Jaime likes. Or rayder will turn up in time. Selwyn, I was thinking about the Sept. On 3ER it says it only seats 50?_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth Seats, no. To get that many in they’d have to be standing._

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Won’t do. Isn’t there some sort of historical ruin there? My brother loves those_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth Evenfall Hall, but it’s not all that safe. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth @ Spider@Web_

[Spider@Web has joined the chat]

_Spider@Web You rang?_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth We need to restore Evenfall Hall on Tarth, to at least minimum safety standards, within four months_

_Spider@Web You don’t ask much_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Pull strings_

_Spider@Web Of course_

[Spider@Web has left the chat]

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth is there a septon or septa Brienne has fond memories of?_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth The opposite. We stopped going to Sept when Septa Roelle said some unkind things to Brienne._

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Alright let me think about it. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth She likes all that ice and fire stuff like Jaime, right?_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth Yes. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth @ Thoros@Lightlord_

[Thoros@Lightlord has joined the chat]

_Thoros@Lightlord Lord of Light, defend us. The night is dark and full of terrors._

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Yes, yes, etcetera. Are you able to perform marriages, legally I mean? Specifically cloaking ceremonies?_

_Thoros@Lightlord I’m a licenced celebrant, but R’hllor’s rituals include additional elements._

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth How much would it cost for you to exclude them for one wedding?_

_Thoros@Lightlord Is there an open bar?_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Yes_

_Thoros@Lightlord Travel expenses_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Done. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth @ Olenna@Highgarden_

[Olenna@Highgarden has joined the chat]

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Ms Tyrell, how would you like to assist me in making sure my kind cousin Cersei is comprehensively humiliated?_

_Olenna@Highgarden What do you need me to do?_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth You’re going to receive an invitation to my brother’s cloaking ceremony with his new wife. So will most of the other people important to his career. _

_Olenna@Highgarden Say no more._

_Olenna@Highgarden @ Rose@Highgarden_

[Rose@Highgarden has joined the chat]

_Rose@Highgarden Grandmama?_

_Olenna@Highgarden Darling, you’re going to Jaime Lannister’s cloaking ceremony and you’re extremely excited about it _

_Rose@Highgarden Who should be my +1?_

_Olenna@Highgarden Oberyn Martell. _

_Rose@Highgarden Got it_

[Rose@Highgarden has left the chat]

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth So we have accommodation, catering, venue, and garments covered. Bronn will organise the alcohol. Music TBA. What else?_

_Olenna@Highgarden A photographer at least, preferably a cameraman as well. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth can you recommend anyone?_

_Olenna@Highgarden I’d be happy to organise it. And direct. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth You really hate my cousin, don’t you?_

_Olenna@Highgarden you have no idea. You also need floral arrangements, pages, tables and chairs for both the ceremony and the dinner. If you’re doing it properly, you need three men to stand up with the bride and three women with the groom and you’ll need at least a dozen people of either gender for a bedding ceremony. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Shit._

_Olenna@Highgarden Security guards to corral the paparazzi and a publicist to organise them. A red-carpet or the equivalent for your celebrity guests. _

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth Brienne is going to hate that_

_Olenna@Highgarden Security can move them away before she arrives. But there’s no point inviting the A-list if people don’t know they’ve come. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth I’ll stand up with Brienne, does that count? I’m only a half-man_

_Shae@Chataya Not where it counts_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth And me of course. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth @ Sandor@Hound _

[Sandor@Hound has joined the chat]

_Sandor@Hound what the fuck do you want?_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth would you stand up for Brienne Tarth at a cloaking ceremony?_

_Sandor@Hound of course I fucking would_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Good that’s three_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth do you have friends who work security?_

_Sandor@Hound some_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth I know some former LEOs who would help._

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Good. I don’t know three women who’d stand with Jaime. Aunt Genna. That’s it._

_Olenna@Highgarden Oh gods be good. I’ll do it. And so will Jeyne Westerling, if she knows what’s good for her. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Why?_

_Olenna@Highgarden publicity for her latest film. She’s getting Iron Throne nomination buzz. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth What about flowers? _

_Olenna@Highgarden call Tommen Costayne_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Got it_

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Selwyn we will need guest list from your side to finalise numbers_

_Selwyn@EvenstarTarth Sure, give me a couple of days. What’s the limit?_

_ Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth Everyone Brienne likes. Oh, and include Lyanna@BearIsland on the bride’s side. Good publicity. Just give me numbers and names and we’ll take care of it. _


	72. Brienne XXIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skagos, and parts further north. NSFW

“Brienne!” Jaime yelled. “Brienne! Wench! Look at this!”

Brienne smiled, and trudged back down the track to where Jaime was kneeling beside one of Skagos’s wind-blighted shrubs. “What have you found?”

“It’s a unicorn horn!” Jaime said, holding up a long, thin piece of bone.

“Really?” said Brienne, who had dropped it under that very bush five minutes earlier. “Amazing, Jaime!”

Jaime rose to his feet and wrapped his arms around her. “I know you put it there, wench,” he whispered against her cheek and then kissed her, and again, and again, with increasing fervour. “I’d rather find you than any unicorn, Brienne, Brienne.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling back a little. “I’m not a very good actor.” 

“Wench, wench, wench.” He kissed her between each word. “Did you bring that all the way from King’s Landing?”

“Yes,” Brienne admitted, and Jaime laughed and kissed her breathless.

They had a whole week on Skagos, which would have been too long – it was not a large or a particularly interesting island – if Brienne hadn’t been spending it with Jaime. They took a guided tour of one of the cave systems where evidence of the stoneborn Skagosi’s civilization had been found, and Jaime paid an absurd amount of dragons for an obsidian arrowhead that their guide swore had been dug up just yesterday. 

“Just made in someone’s garage yesterday, more like,” Brienne said later, and Jaime laughed and kissed her and told a long and involved story about how _this very arrowhead_ had been used by a stoneborn clan-lord riding aback his unicorn in the fight against the cold gods during the Long Night, and how the unicorn horn he’d found was from _that very unicorn_ and had been later traded south until it had turned up in _the very shop_ where she’d bought it, so sober and earnest that he might almost have believed it except for the merriment in his eyes.

He was so happy with all his ridiculous carrying-on that it made _her_ happy just to look at him, and that was on top of a sort of constant, low-level hum of sweet contentment that had started when she’d finally parsed what Jaime meant by _best friend_ and had only continued to grow since then. _This book says I’m in love with you, do you mind if I am?_ was definitely not what movies had led her to expect as a declaration of devotion but it was about as Jaime as anything could have been. And then he’d been nervous and wary around her for a little while, which had made it difficult for her to keep herself from just pointing out _I’m not Cersei_. But she hadn’t, she’d made herself be calm and normal and carry on being his _best friend_ as if nothing had changed, because, well, nothing _had_ changed except one word.

Still, the first time he grinned at her after she’d corrected him on the appropriate way to smite a basilisk and said _wench, no wonder I love you_, Brienne had felt as if she’d taken first place in every class in every tourney that year. She’d cried a little bit, later – in the bathroom, with the shower running, because the last thing Jaime needed was for her to somehow give him the idea that him loving her made her unhappy. 

So a week on Skagos, criss-crossing the small rocky island on the myriad walking tracks, with no press and no paparazzi, and with Jaime telling her he loved her every hour or more often, was perfectly fine despite the lack of diversions. 

Brienne was actually a little relieved that there wasn’t much to do on Skagos except tour the few historical sights and walk along the cliffs while Jaime found rocks that unicorns had clearly trodden on and bushes that unicorns had clearly been nibbling on and tufts of hair that were obviously and definitely from a unicorn’s shaggy hide. Whether it was the constant wind that whistled over the island and through the branches of the weirwood tree outside the window of their cabin, or the unsettling grey of the sea, so different to Tarth, she found it hard to sleep. When she did sleep, it was restless, waking several times a night from dreams she couldn’t quite remember. _Nightmare?_ Jaime asked each time, stroking her hair, and Brienne shook her head. She didn’t wake frightened, or angry, or worried about something, she just … _woke_, with the odd sense she’d just forgotten something.

It left her a little tired and sleepy during the day and quite content to not do anything much at all.

From Skagos they took the ferry to Hardhome where it turned out that the expedition up the Antler River that Jaime had booked was with Thunderfist Tours, run by Tormund Giantsbane himself. He and his daughter Munda looked over their cold-weather gear, pronounced it acceptable and took them around the edge of the bay in a shallow-bottomed motorboat, to the mouth of the Antler River and their first campsite.

Brienne had expected something along the lines of camping trips in the Rainwood with her dad: a _character-building_ experience involving heavy backpacks, tents to be erected every night, food from tins if the fishing hadn’t been good that day. But this was Jaime, and so they climbed out of the boat to the sight of huge white tents set on raised wooden platforms beside ghost-white weirwoods and a campfire crackling beneath what seemed to be an entire boar on a spit.

“Jaime, I thought you said we’d be _camping_,” she said.

“We are,” he said in surprise. “Look, tents.”

Brienne shook her head and refused to let Munda carry her bag to their tent for her.

Still, she had to admit, it was very nice to be able to have a hot shower and change into clean clothes and eat boar ribs and coal-roasted turnips prepared by somebody else while being warmed by a fire that somebody else had built. And it wasn’t as if their guides – Osha and Rowan, who’d set up the camp, as well as Tormund and Munda – weren’t eating boar ribs as well and didn’t have their own tents. _I’m still going to take him proper camping, though._

Brienne remembered that Ygritte and Tormund were cousins, and told him about sharing a trailer at Winterfell with her, and Tormund had a hundred stories about Ygritte, each more improbable than the last. Brienne leaned against Jaime and listened to how Ygritte had killed a shadow-cat at the age of five and a bear at the age of eight, and how that had been a tragedy because the bear had actually been Tormund’s girlfriend, and how Ygritte could shoot an arrow through an eagle’s eye as it stooped and through a falling star.

She fell asleep, or almost asleep, for a while, Jaime’s arm around her waist and her head on his shoulder, woke up a bit when Tormund and Osha and Rowan sang _The Last of the Giants _but with a strange, sad melody that Brienne had never heard before. Jaime made them sing it again, and then sing it with him, until he was sure he had it right, and then Jaime sang _Seasons of Love_ and Osha took out her phone and made him sing it again so she could record it, saying _we never have enough songs, north of the Wall_.

So Jaime sang them a couple of songs from _The North Remembers_, and then one about the Long Night from Mance Rayder’s latest and then they all sang _By the waters of Chroyane_, which was pretty much mandatory when you had a campfire and at least three people.

Then they went to their separate tents and Jaime whispered that he needed to make sure that Brienne got a good night’s sleep for once and slid down the bed, and she tried to be quiet, she _did_, but somewhere along the way as he licked and sucked, and stroked that place inside her that made her vision blur, she forgot about that, about the tent and the other people sleeping nearby, because _oh Jaime, Jaime, Jaime_ she was turning inside out with how good it felt, it was more than she could stand and it was absolutely necessary and _Jaime, Jaime, yes, Jaime_ she was shaking and shaking and there was still more she could feel, and more again, and she couldn’t tell if she’d come or was about to come or was coming right then, just that it was so good and she didn’t want it to ever stop and _Jaime, Jaime – _she lifted up into fire, into light, blazing with it, _Jaime!_

She came back to herself wrapped in his arms. “Alright?” he asked quietly, and all she could do was nod, and go to sleep.

_Oathkeeper, Jaime said, and handed her a lion-handled sword. But it was all wrong, they weren’t in a hotel suite in Moat Cailin, they were in some strange round room with white-washed walls and a table the shape of a shield in the centre. _

_Blue is a good colour on you, my lady, Jaime said, it goes well with your eyes_.

_Defend his daughter with his own steel_.

_And gods be good, but there was something in his face she hated to see, the cynical sneer that he’d worn when first they met and he was angry with her somehow …_

“Jaime,” she said, and woke herself up.

He raised himself on his elbow. “Are you alright?”

Brienne nodded. “I dreamed of you. I dreamed you gave me Oathkeeper.”

Jaime smiled. “I _did_ give you Oathkeeper.”

“It was different. Somewhere else. You were … different.”

“Just a dream,” Jaime said, and kissed her cheek, and Brienne closed her eyes and went down again into a muddled world where Vargo Hoat had a sword and there was a bear and …

“Jaime,” she said again, and it was morning.

She was heavy-eyed and yawning at breakfast and dozed off again in the boat as they puttered slowly past the snow-caked firs and the weirwoods intermingled with them. She woke cradled in Jaime’s lap, his arms tight around her.

“I think maybe we should go back,” he said softly in her ear.

Brienne raised her head. “Why?”

“I don’t think you’re well.” He kissed her forehead. “You don’t have a fever, as far as I can tell, but you’ve been … not yourself for a few days now. I think you should see a maester.”

She turned her face into his shoulder. “I’ve just been having these weird dreams. There was a bear. I was fighting it and you jumped in front of me.”

Jaime chuckled softly. “I’m gratified to know that I’m the hero of your dreams. But you haven’t been quite right since Skagos. Maybe it’s some kind of delayed reaction thing, but I’d really feel better if you got checked out, and there’s not going to be any kind of maester at the Fist of the First.” 

“I think if I could just get a decent night’s sleep, I’d be fine,” Brienne said.

“Maybe we should check out why you’re not sleeping well?” Jaime suggested.

“It’s the dreams,” Brienne said again, and slipped back down into the strangeness of Jaime being the same and different and having only one hand of flesh and blood and the other of gold … _My lady, I had not thought to see you again so soon, Jaime said. There was something she had to do, something … it was terrible, she knew that much … Jaime …_

“We’re going to walk for a bit, now,” Jaime said, and Brienne nodded and let him help her out of the boat. They were surrounded by stark white weirwood trees that whispered as she passed them, _Evenstar, Evenstar …_ perhaps Jaime was right, and she was unwell, because everything was coming and going around her – except for Jaime, who was solid and real and there, his arm around her waist. _Jaime I feel so strange_ she whispered and he murmured _not far, not much further, not far. _

They came out of the trees into a clearing filled with tents, shaggy pelts stretched over them for protection from the cold. It wasn’t a camp, it was a settlement, almost a town although one that could be moved from one place to another.

“There’s a maester here?” Jaime asked Tormund.

“Yes, but I told you, she’s only woodsick,” Tormund said. “Here. Bring her in here.”

Jaime steered Brienne through the entrance of one of the tents. It was dimly lit and warm inside, the floor strewn with furs.

“Ho, Val,” Tormund said. “One of my southrons has taken woodsick.” 

A tall woman with long, fair hair braided in a crown around her head appeared from the back of the tent. “Lay her down, then, and let’s take a look.”

Jaime helped Brienne lie down on a bed covered with still more furs and Val stooped over her and put a hand on her forehead. She was extraordinarily beautiful, like a model or an actress or one of the women Jaime had used to pretend to date, but Brienne didn’t feel huge and lumbering and hideous beside her as she usually did near lovely women. “I’ve been having these strange dreams,” she explained. “Since Skagos.”

“Things that are and are not, places you’ve been and not been, things that happened and yet didn’t,” Val said, and Brienne nodded. “Tormund Giantsbane, what were you thinking, bringing a northerner into the forest at this time of year without even warning her?”

“I’m from Tarth,” Brienne said. “I’m not northern.”

“You’ve some northern blood in you, to take so strongly woodsick so quickly, that’s certain,” Val said. “What’s your name?”

“Brienne Tarth.”

“Are you on any medications or have any medical conditions, Brienne?”

“No.”

“Excuse me,” Jaime said, in that very calm way he got when he was about to begin losing his temper. “What’s woodsick? How do you fix it? Do we need to have her airlifted to a hospital?”

“It will pass, in day or so,” Val said. “It’s the weirwood trees, you see. The trees remember. We’re close to the season’s turn, and that means the trees are awake. It’s not dangerous.” She smiled at Brienne. “Although I’m sure it’s disconcerting if you don’t understand what’s happening.”

“I _still_ don’t understand what’s happening.” Jaime’s voice had picked up an edge. “What sort of maester are you, exactly?”

Val drew a necklace out from beneath her sweater. “One with a silver ring, and one of platinum, and one of red gold as well. I’ll run some tests, with Brienne’s permission, to set your mind at ease, but it’s … think of it as similar to mild altitude sickness. She just needs to acclimate.”

“To the trees? Like … an allergy?”

Val nodded. “That’s another way to think of it. Brienne, do you mind if I take some blood?”

“No, that’s fine,” Brienne said.

“But she’ll be alright?” Jaime asked.

“She will be, and if it sets your mind at rest, I can have a medivac helicopter here in thirty minutes.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Brienne said. “Jaime. If she says I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine.”

Jaime sat down on the edge of the bed as Val went to the back of the tent again. He took Brienne’s hand. “Just say the word if you do, though. There’s no point staying if you feel awful.”

“I don’t feel awful, just … tired and sort of vague.”

Jaime shifted a little to let Val draw a vial of Brienne’s blood. “And the nightmares.”

“I told you, they’re not … nightmares. I mean, some of them are awful. But mostly they’re just strange. You’re in them, almost all of them, but your right hand is made of gold. You kissed me in a blizzard. We thought we were going to die. Something terrible was coming, and I was so frightened, and then you kissed me. I had Oathkeeper and you had a sword, too, and you said we were both going to survive because I’d promised to take you to Tarth.”

“Tarth is beautiful, and kissing you is lovely, so I clearly have good judgement even in your dreams.”

“There,” Val said. “I’ll run some tests. You just rest, Brienne, you’ll be back to yourself tomorrow or the day after.”

“Can I stay with her?” Jaime asked.

“Of course,” Val said.

Brienne closed her eyes again as Jaime stretched out on the furs beside her, his arm around her waist, his ankle hooked over hers. _He held me like this in the hospital … and at Winterfell, after the dragon … I could never have killed it without him …_

_Evenstar, _whispered the trees. _Evenstar._  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s no canon I can find as to what platinum and red gold links signify so I’m going with ‘medicine related, like maybe chemistry’.


	73. Jaime XXIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime meets an old acquaintance and makes a new one.

Brienne slept for most of the day in Val’s warm, dark tent, murmuring in her dreams sometimes. _The dragon,_ she said once, _Jaime be careful,_ and then _oh you idiot. _He kissed her cheek and told her he was being careful and that he was not being an idiot, thank you very much, and she smiled in her sleep and curled into his embrace. 

Val came back and told him that Brienne showed no sign of any virus or infection, and her blood tested negative for toxins or any drugs, which Jaime supposed he had to trust. _She has the links, after all._ And Brienne still had no fever that he could detect. Jaime had gotten mountain sickness once, filming in the Mountains of the Moon, and he could remember how thoroughly it had wiped him out for a few days, so if Brienne needed to sleep, alright, they’d stay in this … where-ever they were … for as long as she needed to rest. Or until Val decided that the trees had gone back to sleep or whatever cryptic nonsense she came up with.

_I had Oathkeeper_, Brienne had said, _and your right hand was made of gold_.

Jaime hadn’t realised she’d treated his theories about Goldenhand the Just any more seriously than she treated any of his ideas, but they’d clearly found their way into her dreams, in a distorted form. Goldenhand having an actual golden hand and not having Oathkeeper, well, Oathkeeper _was_ Brienne’s and Jaime would fight Goldenhand’s ghost if he came to claim it and there must have been _some_ reason for the name. Most movies that featured him gave him golden gauntlets, which was probably more likely than an actual golden prosthetic – the thing would weigh a ton, for one thing – but if Jaime ever made a film about Goldenhand, maybe he _would_ give him a hand of actual gold. Although his sword would still be Oathkeeper, of course, because that’s what he was famous for, there was even one chronicle entry about _Goldenhand the Oathkeeper_, although most historians believed it was about an entirely different person. _Most likely a woman_, was the most popular interpretation, _given the entry is entirely about children and family and makes no mention of masculine pursuits._

“Jaime,” Brienne murmured. “Jaime.”

“I’m here,” he told her. “You’re alright, you’re safe. Just a bad dream.”

“Jaime, Jaime,” she said again, and the low note in her voice was actually a lot more like the way she sounded when his fingers were between her legs so maybe _not_ a nightmare. He drew her closer and she pressed against him and sighed and then moaned his name again and shuddered the way she had in her –

_Not_ nightmares, he realised, and suddenly felt very stupid indeed.

“We woke the baby,” she said then. “Jaime.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he assured her, and she murmured something unintelligible and was still again.

It was night before she woke up properly, giving him a sleepy smile when he asked how she felt. “Still sort of strange. But good.”

“What were you dreaming about?”

“We were on Tarth. Some place I’ve never been, but it was Tarth, I could see the hills at Evenfall through the window.” She pressed her face to his neck. “We were old. Older, anyway.”

“You said something about a baby.”

“Our granddaughter. Gerion’s daughter.”

“Gerion is a Lannister name.”

“You probably picked it,” Brienne said.

Jaime kissed her cheek. “Are you hungry? You slept through lunch.”

“I am a bit,” Brienne said.

“I’ll get you something to eat, if you’re alright with me leaving you alone for a while?”

Brienne smiled, and reached up to run her hand over his hair. “Yes, I’m alright. I think I’m feeling better.”

Jaime kissed her cheek again, and then her mouth, and then it was a little while before he managed to tear himself away and get up. “I’ll find out what there is for dinner,” he said, and ducked out of the tent into the chill night air.

This far north, it was still cold and not just cool at night, even this late in the year, although there wasn’t snow on the ground – except in the deepest shadows between the trees, where it probably lay there all year round. Jaime zipped up his jacket and trudged towards the nearest campfire to ask whether he could find either food, or Tormund Giantsbane, who could direct him to food.

A man with long grey hair was sitting on a log, his back to Jaime. He was hunched over a guitar, picking a slow and haunting tune from the strings. “_I come from down in the Riverlands, where mister when you're young,” _he sang in a husky, flexible, baritone, and Jaime stopped, listening. “_They bring you up to do like your papa done. Me and Mari we met in high school, when she was just seventeen. We'd ride out of this valley down to where the fields were green_.” The guitar picked up pace and urgency, and so did the man’s voice “_We'd go down to the Trident, and into the Trident we'd dive, oh down to the Trident we'd ride, ay-ay-ay…_”

The notes died away and the man raised his shaggy grey head. “If I have an audience, it should make itself known,” he said without turning around.

“Sorry,” Jaime said, coming forward. “I just … I don’t know that one.”

“That’s because I haven’t finished writing it,” Mance Rayder said, turning to look up at him. “Jaime fucking Lannister. What are you doing here in the heart of winter at the turning of spring?”

Jaime blinked. “The Mance. It’s been a while.”

“That party at Rushing Falls,” Mance said, nodding. “You were there with … Larra Blackmont. You left early.”

“Not my thing,” Jaime said. “Do you know where I can find some food? Or Tormund? I need to get dinner for my wife.”

“Ah.” Mance shaped chords, some melding, some dissonant. “I heard Tormund brought in a couple of tourists, one woodsick. Is my goodsister taking care of you?”

“Val? Yes. I mean …” Jaime hesitated. “She says some odd things.”

“She does that,” Mance agreed. He nodded toward the fire, and Jaime realised there was a foil-wrapped package shoved deep into the coals. “Sit a few moments and you can share my meal, you and your wife.”

“Thanks.” Jaime sat down on the log. “Val says it’s not serious?”

“Most of us go through it too young to remember.” Mance drew another chord from the guitar, shifted to striking individual notes. “But no, it’s not serious. The old folk say it’s the third eye opening. Most think it’s a passing allergy. Either way, it lasts a day, or a week, and it’s gone.” He bent over the guitar again. “_In the deep midwinter, frosty wind made moan,_” he sang softly. “_Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone. Snow had fallen, snow on snow. In the bleak midwinter, long, long ago. _Do you know this one?_”_

Jaime nodded, and joined in on the next verse. “_Drifts as deep as houses, cold cuts like a knife. Ice weighs down upon you, cold that steals your life. Winter has fallen, winter has come, starving both the rich and poor, sparing only some_.”

“_Night is upon us_,” Mance sang, “_Night without an end_. _Darkness everlasting, which no man can contend. Fire and life defend us, keep us from the white. Ancestors defend us, and lead us to the light._”

“I don’t know that verse,” Jaime said.

Mance gave him a quick, sideways grin and set his guitar aside. “I just wrote it.” He tugged the foil out of the coals, blew on his fingers, and opened the package carefully, releasing a gust of meat and vegetable scent. “There. Let it cool a moment.”

“Thanks.”

Mance shrugged. “I have more than I need. You need more than you have. No need to thank me, it’s the northern way.” He picked up his guitar again and struck a chord. “You never know when you’ll need to eat by someone’s fire, after all.”

“I thought you were on the Isle of Faces.”

“I was. Now I’m here. It’s the equinox, which is a good time to come home, and I wanted my father to meet my wife.”

“You’re from north of the Wall.” And how had Jaime not known that? _I even read a biography on him. _

Mance smiled. “I’m from everywhere. All good bards are. My _father_ is from the north. And my mother, and my wife. And _your_ wife?”

“Brienne Tarth. She’s a Tarth of Tarth.”

“Ah, a Tarth.” Mance picked up his guitar again and picked out an arpeggio. “_The Maid of Tarth, so brave so fair, to battle she did ride. Her shield of oak, her sword of steel, her husband by her side. _Do you know that one?”

“No,” Jaime said. “I’ve never heard it.”

“It’s about the Blue Knight, at least, I think it is.” Mance shaped another series of chords. “I heard it from a crofter’s daughter near Oldstones, Jenny, her name was. She had it from her grandfather. And there’s a theory –”

“That the Blue Knight was an Evenstar, yes, I know,” Jaime said. “I hadn’t heard the theory that she’d married, though.”

“Ah, there’s theories, there’s songs, there’s what really happened, there’s what some maester with a bronze link thinks might have happened …” Mance shrugged. “Plates and cutlery are on your left. Help yourself to as much as you need.”

Jaime stacked a couple of plates for ease of carrying, piled venison and vegetables onto the top one, and made his way back to Brienne. She was sitting up, and looked a lot more like herself again, which made Jaime feel a good deal better about the whole not-calling-for-medivac thing. He told her about Mance as they ate, hummed what he could remember of the new song was Mance was writing, and about Jenny from Oldstones and the Blue Knight’s husband.

After they’d finished eating, Brienne said she felt well enough to come with Jaime when he went to return the plates so they made their way back to Mance’s campfire. Tormund, Val, and another woman so alike to Val she must have been Dalla, Mance’s wife, had joined him, listening as he played a slow but somehow cheerful tune.

“Join us,” Val said, patting the log she was sitting on. Brienne sat next to her, and Val looked her over. “It’s passing,” she said. “You’ll be feeling better.”

Brienne smiled. “I am, thank you. And thank you for the food.”

“Thank Dalla, she shot it,” Val said.

Jaime sat beside Brienne. “Is this … _town_ always here?”

“No,” Val said. “You rarely see so many of us all together, here beyond the Wall. It makes it difficult to hunt, for one thing. We come together four times a year, for the solstices, and the equinoxes.”

“Because their king calls them,” a voice said behind them. Jaime turned to see a slender man of middling height looking down at them. His hair and beard were iron grey, and he was old, but even so he bore a striking resemblance to Mance Rayder. He held out his hand to Jaime. “Welcome. I’m Mance’s pa. Abel.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have shameless ripped off Bruce Springsteen for the song in this chapter and the Christmas carol, “In the Bleak Midwinter”


	74. Jaime XXX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King-beyond-the-Wall and the equinox.  
Chapter warning: Drug use as part of a religious ritual. If you want to skip it, you won't miss any important plot.

It was not the best day of his life – Jaime was pretty sure that was always going to be the day he kissed Brienne Tarth in Ellaria Sand’s bar – but it was definitely a candidate for the top ten.

He was sitting on a pelt-covered chair, his feet on a rug made from the skin of a great white bear, in a tent belonging to the King-beyond-the-Wall. And not just _any_ King-beyond-the-Wall, but Abel, Bael-come-again, Abel fucking Rayder himself.

“How does no-one know you’re alive?”

“Because I don’t want them to,” Abel said. He didn’t have a throne, but he did have a comfortable-looking chair carved from the wood of a weirwood tree. He had to be seventy, at least, but nothing in his posture or bearing suggested it, only the lines on his face and the grey of his hair and beard. Even his voice was that of a much-younger man. “Putting up with the southron journalists and their idiocy was a necessary evil to get the sponsorships and the marketing deals when I was climbing, and the gods know we needed the dragons. But once we had what we needed, I couldn’t be doing with having them wandering around pestering me and my people. So I went winter ranging, and was never seen again. Once Mance and his songs took the fancy of the southroners, I never needed to be.” He smiled. “Except by those with a right to it.”

“Your people.”

Abel nodded. “My people.”

“I won’t say anything. I know … a little bit about what a nuisance media attention can be.”

“I know,” Abel said. “We have the weirnet, it’s a bit slow and tends to drop out when the satellite’s at the limit of its range, but we get the news.” _Great,_ Jaime thought, _I meet a living legend and he knows I’m a cousin-fucker._ The thought must have shown on his face, because Abel laughed. “Lad, I don’t care where you stick it, or in who, as long as they’re willing. No-one north of the Wall could give two shits about your southron cock.”

Jaime relaxed a little. _Tyrion said as much_. “And Brienne, my wife, she’s the most trustworthy person I know. She’ll keep your secret as well.”

“Always better to marry a trustworthy woman,” Abel said. “For one thing, you don’t need to sleep with a knife under your pillow. And what brings a movie-star from King’s Landing north of the Wall?”

“The same as you, actually,” Jaime said a little ruefully. “Avoiding the tabloid sharks and the weirnet grumkins. And neither Brienne nor I had been even as far as the Wall before. It seemed a good idea to combine both. We were on our way to the Fist of the First, but Brienne got … woodsick?”

Abel nodded. “The trees are awake, when the seasons turn.”

“Val said something about that, I’m afraid I don’t understand it.”

“The weirwood trees.” Abel patted the arm of his chair. “The trees remember, and when they wake, the past echoes. They send strange dreams. It’s why we’re here. Tomorrow, when the day and the night are equal, those who want to will dream the past into the present and perhaps, who knows, the present into the past.”

“A religious ceremony?” Jaime hazarded.

Abel smiled. “I’m sure the old gods have their hand in it.”

“Do we need to leave, Brienne and me? Is it private?”

“Your wife took woodsick, if she has enough of the north in her for that, no-one can gainsay her, if she wants to stay. As for you …” He shrugged, smiling again. “My grandson likes your movies. If I throw you out and he finds out, he’ll plague me to death.”

“Would he like an autograph, or something?” _Crone’s cunt. I’m sitting in a tent with the King-beyond-the-fucking-Wall and offering _him_ an autograph. This is so surreal it has to be a dream. _

“How about a selfie?” Abel said, and when Jaime nodded a little numbly, fished in a pocket and took out his phone. He got up and went over to Abel, posed beside him obediently and gave his best movie-star smile.

“Can I get a copy of that?” Jaime asked, going to sit down again. _Fuck, even if I can’t ever show anyone … _but, Maiden’s tits, what if he lost his phone or was hacked or something? “Actually, better not. I’d love one, but it’s probably a risk.”

“Probably,” Abel agreed.

“Jaime?” Brienne said from the door. “Val said you were here?”

“Brienne, this is Abel,” Jaime said, reaching out to take her hand as she came to stand beside him. “But he was never here, and we never met him.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, ser. I’ve seen you climb, on television,” Brienne said. “It was extremely impressive.”

“I’m no _ser_, but thank you. There was a time when we climbed the Wall for better reason than sport, or so they say, but it’s good to keep the old ways alive, at least a little.”

“They have a religious ceremony, for the old gods, tomorrow, because of the equinox,” Jaime told her. “Abel says we can stay, if we want.” He felt like he on the verge of becoming a five-year-old. _Can we, can we, can we, please Brienne?_

His wench’s eyes crinkled at the corners. _She knows me so well_. “Well, if we leave, Tormund and the others will have to, as well, and that seems just rude of us.”

Jaime nodded. “It absolutely would be rude.”

Brienne smiled. “Then perhaps we should stay.”

“He asked me for a selfie,” Jaime said to her later, whispering in the dark in the tent they’d been assigned. “The fucking King-beyond-the-Wall asked _me_ for a selfie.”

“Well, you are very pretty,” Brienne said serenely. “Perhaps he wants to set it as his lock screen.”

Jaime began to laugh. “Gods be good, imagine if that were true? Abel himself having a crush on me, my ego would no longer fit inside the apartment.”

“It’s already a close-run thing,” Brienne said, and made him laugh harder. “What does this religion involve, anyway?” 

“I’m not sure,” Jaime confessed. “I mean, probably not human sacrifice? But if so, you can rescue me.”

“Terrific, just my idea of a relaxing holiday, rescuing my husband from having his heart cut out on a weirwood altar. If I’d known, I would have brought Oathkeeper.” She sighed resignedly. “I’ll just have to take out three hundred people with my bare hands, then.”

“I have all the faith in the world in you, wench,” Jaime said. “Besides, I’m almost certain they couldn’t have kept human sacrifice quiet all this time. It’s probably prayers and songs.”

He was, it turned out, almost right. There were prayers, or what Jaime assumed were prayers. They were also songs, or at least, musical chanting, in a language Jaime didn’t know and desperately wished it was polite to record. From the expressions on many of the faces of the people around him and Brienne, and the varying pronunciations he could hear, most of the singers didn’t know the language either, and were repeating sounds memorised by rote. The prayers or songs were accompanied by horns whose deep blasts reached his bones and by drumming that seemed to make the ground shake.

Then, as if on a pre-arranged signal, everyone dispersed, going to their own tents or the campfires. Abel caught Jaime’s eye and raised his hand. Tugging Brienne with him, Jaime made his way over to him.

Abel inclined his head towards his tent. “You’re my guests. Share my tent for the ceremony.”

“That wasn’t it?” Brienne whispered to Jaime as they followed him, and all Jaime could do was shrug.

The furniture had been removed from Abel’s tent, except for the furs covering the floor. There was a truly foul smell, and Jaime realised that it was emanating from the pot that Val was heating over a small brazier.

Brienne put her hand over her mouth and nose, and Abel grinned at her. “It tastes worse, don’t worry.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Fermented auroch’s milk. Mostly. And some herbs.”

“Sounds delightful,” Jaime said dryly.

“It will open your third eye,” Val said, beginning to ladle the substance into small cups. “Allow you to become one with the trees, to see as they see and remember as they do. For a time.”

“Jaime,” Brienne whispered. “I’m not sure I want to do this.”

He squeezed her fingers, trying to suppress a pang of disappointment. “Then we won’t.” 

She stared at him. “Do _you_ want to?” 

“Kind of, but if you want to go, we’ll go.”

“I just … we don’t know what’s in it. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Neither am I,” Jaime confessed. “But the King-beyond-the-Wall has just basically asked me to drop acid with him. It’s not the sort of experience that comes twice in one lifetime.”

Brienne looked at him a moment, and gave a short nod. “Excuse me,” she said to Val. “Can I stay if I don’t, um. Participate?”

Val nodded. “Of course. I won’t be, as the maester.”

Mance Rayder and Dalla came into the tent. Outside, Jaime could hear that the drumming had started again. “I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to do,” he said.

“Drink. See what shows itself to you to be seen,” Val said.

Mance clapped him on the shoulder. “And don’t worry if you vomit, most do, especially the first time.”

The whole thing was sounding less and less attractive to Jaime, but they were in the Haunted Forest with the King-beyond-the-Wall in fucking person so, alright, he’d drink the fermented auroch’s milk and throw up if that was the done thing. _When in Norvos, do as the Norvosi do_.

Abel, Dalla and Mance sat down on the furs, so Jaime sat down as well, tugging Brienne to sit beside him. He accepted the small ceramic cup Val handed him. _Crone’s cunt, it smells even worse close up!_ He tried not to see the chunks – _lumps, don’t think chunks, don’t think chunks –_ floating in the thin white liquid. Mance tossed the entire cup back in one go, which was clearly the right approach _just get it over with_, so Jaime drained his own cup as quickly as he could. For a minute he thought it was going to come straight back up that second but he breathed and swallowed and the taste dissipated a little and the foul stuff settled in his stomach.

He set the cup down and put his arm around Brienne’s shoulders. “How’s my third eye, wench?”

She chuckled and leaned against him. “Still closed.”

Mance was singing something slow and sweet at the other side of the brazier, a song Jaime didn’t know about _a rose, a rose, a winter rose so blue_, his wife Dalla joining in on the chorus. Jaime leaned his head against Brienne’s and listened to the music swirling up to and through the roof and decided that if a cup of auroch’s milk was the price he had to pay to be here, now, to hear this, alright, he was happy to pay it. And the stuff was definitely more than a little alcoholic because he was already starting to feel a little tipsy, just pleasantly warm and relaxed with the walls of the tent swaying back and forth a bit. Brienne put her arms around his waist and leaned into him and that was somehow part of it, the way she felt so strong and warm against him.

“Are you alright?” Brienne asked.

“That stuff was strong.” _Really_ strong, he was well past tipsy now, he didn’t have a lot of experience being really drunk but everything was spinning now and it was actually getting unpleasant. Mance had _not_ been kidding about needing to vomit. “I have to –”

“Here’s a basin,” Brienne said. “Jaime? Just here.” It was right in front of him, and he retched into it, a single heave that brought up the auroch’s milk and everything else in his stomach all at once. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Jaime’s stomach settled the instant the auroch’s milk was out of it. The spinning hadn’t stopped, but he didn’t feel sick at all any more. Actually, he felt kind of great.

“Do you need me to get Val?”

He shook his head, which made the tent float and rock around him in interesting ways. “No. I’m good.”

“Alright, just let me get rid of this.” She was gone a moment, and then back, her arms around him. It was the same warm good feeling he always had when she hugged him, but made somehow more by the fact that she was solid and unmoving as everything else was swimming and shifting.

“Wench,” he said, leaning into her.

“Do you want to lie down?”

_Yes_, being horizontal sounded like a very good idea, so he nodded, and let her lie him down with his head in her lap. She ran her fingers through his hair, and gods be good, he was tired, except it wasn’t that exactly, it was like he was falling asleep and wide-awake at the same time. His whole body was relaxed and warm and the floor was swaying gently under him. The whole feeling just kept getting stronger and stronger, washing over him in waves that took him deeper and deeper into it each time.

He realized his eyes were closed, and opened them again so he could see his wench’s face. Her eyes were the exact same blue as the summer sky beyond her, her hair a halo in the sun, stirred by the sea breeze.

“You’re supposed to be the one needing rest,” he said sleepily. He raised his right arm and pressed the stump of his wrist to her swollen stomach.

Brienne smiled down at him. “You conspired with my chambermaids to leave me sleeping until noon. I’m not the one who needs a nap. Besides, this one is easier than the last.” She leaned down to kiss him.

Jaime closed his eyes at how gentle and tender it was. _I have kissed her a thousand times, and I will never stop being astounded at how sweet it is. _

It was dark when he opened them again. Brienne was sprawled across him, naked – he was naked as well, he realised, both of them under layers of furs. There was no way to tell the time of day from the light, not in the eternal darkness they lived in, but Jaime knew it was approaching the hour of the wolf. _In my sleep I heard the bells. _“Brienne,” he said softly. “Brienne, we must get up.”

“Yes,” she said, not moving. “Jaime.”

He chuckled. “Brienne. I’m serious.”

She groaned and rolled over, off him. Jaime turned over to wrap his arms around her, pressing his face to her neck.

When he opened his eyes again, Brienne was sleeping. He held still, careful not to wake her. The Maesters said she’d heal, with rest, and he was determined that she would get it. When he raised his head he could see the bandages covering her left arm. Less blood there, than the day before: the wound left by the dragon’s raking claw was healing. He couldn’t tell if the bruises that mottled her face and back were fading, but the maesters assured him they were. _I could have lost her, now. After everything._

“Jaime?” Brienne murmured.

“Shhh,” he said. “Go on sleeping.”

“Mmm,” she said, turning away from the Winterfell battlements. “I don’t know the White Wolf. Not that I don’t trust him, but I have no way to gauge his good judgement.”

Jaime shrugged. “What do we lose, if he’s wrong? Only him.”

“Only hope,” Brienne said, and her astonishingly blue eyes brimmed with tears.

“Brienne, Brienne,” Jaime said, and pulled her close and kissed her sweet plump lips and to the Seven Hells with the people –

Either coughing discreetly or cheering. Jaime drew back and turned to see familiar faces in the pews below the statues of the Seven. He turned to look back at Brienne, who blushing and smiling shyly at the same time, her cheeks almost the colour of the red cloak over her shoulders. She looked so sweet he had to lean up and kiss her again.

“That’s more enthusiasm than we usually see,” the Septon said.

Jaime smiled against Brienne’s mouth. “Wench, let’s skip the feast and go straight to the bedding.”

“Jaime,” she said reproachfully

“It’s the most important part of the evening, after all.”

“Jaime!”

“Our marriage won’t be more binding because we’ve eaten cod and tuna.”

“Jaime,” she said helplessly, starting to laugh.

“Well that’s something you don’t see everyday,” Jaime said, staring into the blowing snow, and Brienne make a snorting noise and leaned forward. “Are you alright?”

“Do you think you can make them say thaphireth?” she said between gusts of laughter.

He was grinning as he leapt forward to meet the first of the eight-legged, skittering foe.

Thrust and slash, Brienne there in his blind spot, stab and swing –

Tourney blade rang against tourney blade. He was sweating like a horse, sucking air desperately. _I won’t last much longer_. But Brienne was tiring too, red faced and blinking sweat from her eyes. Her blows still came as hard, but more slowly, and he saw an opening, took it –

“I yield,” Brienne said, the point of Jaime’s sword against her breastbone. She dropped her sword, a brilliant smile spreading across her face.

“You did it! You did it!” a child shouted, and Jaime turned to see a fair-haired girl of five or so sprinting towards him across the packed dirt of the tourney yard. “Pa, you did it!”

His muscles were fluttering with fatigue so instead of lifting her up, Jaime went to one knee to gather her close. “Well, your mother swore an oath not to marry a man who couldn’t defeat her,” he said. “And I couldn’t make her foresworn, could I?” He looked up at Brienne. “I promised you ten years, but it only took me six.”

Her eyes were bluer than the sky and her smile brighter than the sun, although that wasn’t saying much on this chill winter day on the Kingsroad. “Ser Jaime …”

“Lady Brienne.”

“If you are japing, I will forgive you. But please tell me, if you are.”

“No jape, my lady,” he assured her. “I know a one-handed man past his prime is not the prize you deserve, and I know my past will taint you. A better man would have stayed silent, but, my lady, you know already I am not a better man. Will you? Say no, and I won’t speak of it again.”

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “I will. Oh, of course I will.”

“I’ll send a raven to your father when we reach Torrhen’s Square.”

Brienne gave a small snort. “I don’t need his permission.”

Jaime smiled at her, suddenly so happy he thought his heart might actually burst from it. _She said yes. Brienne will be my wife._ “No, but I do.”

“No, you don’t,” Brienne said urgently, her grip hard on his arm. “Jaime, you _don’t_ have to do this.”

A gout of flame blasted past the entrance to the cave, turning the rocks cherry red, and they both flinched back from the heat. Somewhere behind them a man was crying, a woman praying in a steady monotone _if it please you, gods, keep us safe, if it please you, gods, keep up safe …_

“It will roast you inside your armour the instant you step outside,” Jaime pointed out. “Unless it’s distracted.”

“And you,” Brienne said. “Jaime, you’ll have no chance.”

“I have no choice,” he said, kissed her once and fiercely, and pulled away.

“Jaime, be careful!”

“I _am_ being careful,” Jaime said patiently, stroking the downy fuzz on the baby’s head. “Aren’t I, Catelyn? I’m being very careful indeed.” Their daughter stared up at him, screwing up her face as if deciding whether or not to start screaming. He rocked her a little and she decided against it. “She’s very beautiful.”

“Well, she’s _your_ daughter,” Brienne said, raising herself up a little in the bed and wincing at the movement.

“I think actually she’s going to take after you.”

“You say that every time,” Brienne said fondly, her arms around his waist, leaning against his back.

“Well, Joanna is your spitting image,” Jaime pointed out as they gazed at the sun just touching the horizon, turning the Sunset Sea orange and gold. “So there’s a fair chance her child will be. Gods be good, Brienne, can you believe we’re grandparents, or nearly?” He wrapped his arms over hers. “When I asked you to be my wife, I would have laid odds we wouldn’t live the year, not both of us. I hoped _you_ would, at least, but …”

“I swore an oath to keep you safe,” Brienne reminded him. “I swore a holy oath.”

He stared up at her, standing amidst the shattered shards of ice that one instant earlier had been an Other, sword raised to split him in two, and then raised his hand so she could haul him to his feet. “I’ve never been more grateful of how seriously you take the matter of vows.”

“We have to fall back to the crypts,” Brienne said, her breath puffs of steam in the frigid air. “They’re over the walls in two places.”

“So this is it,” Jaime said.

She nodded. “We can hold out for a while down there. But in the end … it’s up to the White Wolf, now.”

“The White Wolf.” Jaime ran his fingers through Brienne’s hair and watched the firelight dancing on the strands. “King of Winter. Poor bastard.”

“We owe him everything,” Brienne said against his shoulder.

“Not everything.” He kissed the top of her head. “What now, do you think?”

She raised her head and pressed her lips to his. “Now we live, I suppose. Just live.”

“Less eventfully,” Jaime suggested. “At least somewhat.”

He felt her lips curve in a smile. “At least somewhat. Jaime. Jaime?”

His eyes were closed again. He opened them to see Brienne looking down at him, the ceiling of a tent beyond her. The last time he’d seen it, it had been swaying back and forth, but it was still now, as were the furs beneath him. “Brienne.”

“Yes.” She stroked his hair. “How do you feel?”

He thought about it. “Good,” he decided at last. “Tired.”

“Val said you’d be. Did your third eye open or whatever? Make you one with the trees?”

He smiled. “No. I dreamed of you. Fighting spiders made of ice as big as hounds.”

“Sounds awful.”

“There were good bits too.” His eyes were closing of their own accord. “Brienne.”

“I’m here,” she promised him softly. “Just rest, Jaime. Just rest.”

So he did.


	75. Brienne XXX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime continue their holiday. NSFW

Jaime didn’t seem to have taken any ill-effects from his experience, although he slept another full ten hours after Brienne finally roused him and steered him back to their tent. She made him drink plenty of water the next day, until he protested that she was trying to drown him by inches, and kept a watchful eye on him, but he was his usual cheerful self, trading old songs and stories with Mance Rayder and competing with Tormund in what seemed to be an attempt to see which of them could spout the most ridiculous nonsense. _I dreamed of your dragon,_ Jaime whispered under the furs that night. _A castle … it was always night. And Tarth. Winter, and spring. _

_Just a dream,_ Brienne reassured him, and he smiled, and agreed. _Just a dream. _

The day after they made their farewells and set out again, first back to the Antler River and then up it until the water became too shallow for the boats. There was a camp and dinner waiting for them, fish this time, and in the morning they hiked up to the Fist of the First. It was less impressive than Brienne had imagined, the stone walls worn by time and tumbled down in many places by storms, but the view was breathtaking, and worth the climb.

They camped one more night at the foot of the steep, stony hill and then hiked the short distance to the road that ran straight down to the site where Castle Black was said to have once stood and where one of the few tunnels through the Ice Wall gave access to the south. A battered SVU took them south, through the Wall and to Mole’s Town. They stayed one night in a motel that Jaime teased was _Brienne Tarth price-range appropriate _and while there weren’t trucks roaring past on the road outside, the walls were thin enough for them to hear the couple next door having fairly enthusiastic sex. Jaime grinned at her and said _let’s put them to shame_, his hands sliding under the T-shirt she wore to sleep. _Jaime,_ she scolded, and then a while later was saying his name in an entirely different tone and then a while after that screaming it while their neighbours thumped the wall and Jaime laughed like a loon. So Brienne slid down under the covers herself and, alright, she’d never quite been brave enough to try it before but she’d looked it up on 3ER and watched some informative videos, and from Jaime’s response she didn’t do too badly, for her first time, and the neighbours thumped on the wall a second time.

In the morning they checked out, Brienne blushing at the motel clerk’s grin, and Jaime wearing an annoyingly smug expression, and collected their hire car. They stopped at Last Hearth, where Jaime insisted Hother Umber tell Brienne every single one of the ghost stories about little Ned Umber. Over lunch, Jaime endured the Greatjon’s repeated regrets that they’d never face each other on the tourney field again with an increasingly grim expression and Brienne held tight to his poor maimed hand under the table.

“I beat Jaime once, before he was injured,” Brienne said innocently. “But perhaps you, Mr Umber, could give me a _real_ challenge.”

Before long they were all out in the courtyard and Jaime was helping Brienne tighten the straps on the padding most wore for training to spare their tourney armour.

“He’s slower turning to the left,” he whispered to her. “Make him chase you that way, you can get in behind his guard. He’s strong, so don’t let him land too many blows –”

“Jaime, don’t worry,” Brienne said, kissed him and pulled on her helmet.

The Greatjon _was_ slow turning to the left, and he _was_ strong, but most importantly, like most men she’d fought he was impatient to finish things quickly and prove they could beat a woman easily. Brienne kept him moving until he was breathing hard and his sword-work was getting sloppy with fatigue, and then stepped in instead of dodging and disarmed him with one hard blow to his wrist.

“Is it wrong that watching that made me so hard I can’t see straight?” Jaime whispered as he helped her take off her padding.

“Don’t say such things in public,” Brienne scolded softly, but fifteen minutes down the Kingsroad she found a turnoff that led to rest-stop. She parked at the far end, in among the trees, and they both ended up in the backseat, kissing and touching and grinding urgently against each other, Jaime panting _fuck yes Brienne yes yes_ against her mouth until she was clutching his back and he gasped and pressed hard against her and shook.

“Sorry,” Jaime said after a minute. “You’re just so fucking hot.”

Brienne ran her fingers through his hair. “I was the one who pulled over. That you liked watching me …”

“Did it make you wet?” Jaime whispered, and Brienne felt herself blush but his hand was sliding up her thigh and then between her legs and _oh_.

“Jaime,” she gasped. “Jaime!”

“Alright.” He undid the fly of her jeans and worked his fingers inside. “Alright. Let me take care of you. Let me.”

She’d had the courage to say _yes, Jaime, like that_ and _that’s nice, that’s good_, but not much more, in the past, but suddenly words were pouring from her mouth shamelessly _harder, yes, that, Jaime, inside, deeper, so good, so good_ and the sound of her own voice made her spiral higher and higher, _more, Jaime, more, yes, like that_, higher and higher and tighter and tighter and Jaime whispering _tell me what you want, Brienne, tell me_ was part of it, _harder, Jaime, harder_ was part of it, until she couldn’t stand it another instant and _Jaime please _and pleasure crashed over her in blinding waves that made her see fireworks and then white and then nothing at all.

She floated in a haze of pleasure for a while. Gradually, she became aware that her legs were cramped by the dimensions of the backseat and Jaime was tucked against her in a way that couldn’t be entirely comfortable. “Jaime?”

“Mmm.” He kissed her cheek. “We either have to get back on the road, or resign ourselves to spending the night in the car.”

“If the car was a little bigger, I’d be tempted,” she murmured.

Jaime laughed, kissed her again, and sat up. “I’ll just need to change.”

They reached Wintertown in the late afternoon, trading off the driving, and both agreed to stop there for the night rather than press on the Moat Cailin. Brienne was behind the wheel again when they pulled up outside a two-story building with a sign that said _B&B: Hot and Cold Running Water_. “Really, cold running water? That’s something to point out?”

Jaime chuckled. “We’re in the north,” he said. “We’re lucky there’s not a composting latrine.”

They checked in, rejecting the landlady’s offer of two rooms, deposited their luggage, investigated Wintertown’s limited attractions, had a beer each in the _Smoking Log_ bar and ate the bar’s tolerable roast dinner.

“Don’t look now,” Jaime said quietly, when they were halfway through their meal, “but Gendry Waters and Arya Stark are gazing into each other’s eyes in the back corner booth.”

“I don’t believe you,” Brienne said, trying to steal a glance discreetly. “Surely she’s too young for him.”

“Her sister is with them, so they’re chaperoned.” Jaime grinned at her. “And I’m pretty sure the young man having a quiet drink by himself at the bar is Robb Stark, too, I guess the family is in residence at the moment. So no need to go over there and break things up. Besides, she’s what, sixteen, seventeen now? And he’s in his early twenties. If she’s too young for him, you’re too young for me.” He looked over her shoulder again. “They’re looking at … sketches, I think. So it might just be a friendly professional consultation.”

“She does train.” Brienne managed to turn in what she hoped was a casual manner. _Yes, that’s Sansa with them, so good –_

Sansa Stark looked up from her phone, caught Brienne’s eye and gave her a quick smile, and a wave. She poked her sister and indicated Brienne with a jerk of her chin, and Arya beamed and waved as well. Brienne waved back, and then saw them both look past her to see Jaime. Their smiles died.

Brienne turned back to Jaime. From the look on his face he’d seen the same thing she had. “Do you want to just go?” she said. “It was a long drive, we could both use an early night –”

“Hi, Brienne,” Sansa said behind her. “Mr Lannister.”

“Miss Stark,” Jaime said.

“Sansa.” Brienne turned. “Look at you, you’ve gotten even taller!”

“She got my growth spurt,” Arya said, leaning out from behind Sansa. “It isn’t fair. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? Are you staying at the B and B? It’s awful!”

“We thought we might go straight through to Moat Cailin,” Brienne said. “But we were late starting out.” _And delayed on the way,_ she thought, and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “And, um, this is Jaime, I don’t know if you’ve all met. Jaime Lannister, my husband.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Sansa said politely, leaning across the table to offer Jaime her hand. She elbowed her sister, who mumbled something that might, with charity, be interpreted as a greeting. “We’re all very fond of Brienne. We were surprised to hear she’d wed, so suddenly.” _And to you_, was unspoken but hung clearly in the air.

“_Charmed_ to meet you,” Jaime said, the old edge back to his voice. Brienne felt her stomach knot. “Wench, why don’t you catch up with your friends? I’ll see you back at the bed-and-breakfast.”

“You haven’t –” _finished your meal_, but he was on his feet and Brienne couldn’t find the words to fix the hard look on his face or the sharpness of his smile as he took his leave.

“Brienne.” Sansa sat down beside her. “Are you alright? It’s not the age of ice and fire anymore, you don’t _have_ to stay married –”

“Especially not to a man like that!” Arya put in.

“If you’re not happy,” Sansa finished. “I mean, I know better than most that pretty much everything the Mockingbird newspapers is rubbish, but Lannister _admitted_ it, that Cersei Baratheon was telling the truth. And Dad … he must have had – ”

“He _didn’t_,” Brienne said sharply. “You’re right, Sansa, what the tabloids say is worse than rubbish. Jaime had nothing to do with what happened to your father, he would have called the Cloaks immediately if he’d had the slightest idea. He actually saved my life, you know, and saved me from being raped, when the Brave Companions took us, when we hardly knew each other. That’s the kind of man he is, not whatever you think you know from the weirnet. And you’re right, I don’t have to stay married, but I want to. I love Jaime, and Jaime loves me, as hard as you might find that to believe given how I look. The only thing that’s making me unhappy is how unkind you were to him.”

Sansa looked stricken. “Brienne, I just meant –” 

“Excuse me,” Brienne said, getting to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster. “My _husband_ will be waiting for me.”

Her phone squawked twice as she walked the two blocks to the B&B, both times _Sansa Stark calling_. Brienne ignored it. When she let herself into their room, Jaime was sprawled on the bed, leafing through a book with a speed that showed he wasn’t actually reading it.

“Hey,” she said, sitting down beside him.

“Hey.” His voice was tight, his face set, and he looked at his book instead of at her.

“I’m sorry about them,” she offered.

“I’m used to it. If you want to visit them at Winterfell tomorrow, I can amuse myself.”

“I don’t really want to go anywhere that you’re not welcome,” Brienne said.

“Then, wench, you won’t be going many places in your life.”

The bitterness in his voice made her flinch. “It’s me, you know, not you. If I looked like Sansa, or Margaery Tyrell, they wouldn’t think to wonder that we’re married. Because I’m me, they think … I don’t know – something.”

“They _think_ that I’m the cousin-fucking Kingslayer,” Jaime said. “A man who wouldn’t blink at conspiring at the murder of their father. I’m more likely to conspire at the murder of _mine_, but never mind the truth. The story is the story.”

Her phone squawked again and Brienne silenced it. “I know that’s not true.”

“You’re about the only one.”

“Jaime, don’t, please,” Brienne said. “They’re just two girls, who don’t know you. Their words are wind. If you’d stayed, let them get to know you – ”

“I’m not going to apologise for not staying to be insulted,” Jaime bit out.

“I’m not asking you to apologise,” Brienne said. “I gave them a piece of my mind, myself, before I left. Pretty much right after you, in case you hadn’t noticed. Do you think that was somehow fun for _me_? I know how people look at us when we’re together. I mean, we checked in here together, and I’m wearing a wedding ring, and the lady downstairs assumed we wanted two rooms.”

Jaime lowered his book and looked at her for the first time. “That was me, wench. Everyone in Westeros knows about me and Cersei now, and this is the north. She assumed you wouldn’t want to share a room – ”

“She assumed I was married to someone who looks like Sandor Clegane, and that we were travelling as friends,” Brienne corrected. “And, you know, I can live with that, I knew – I _always_ knew that’s what people would think. I try not to imagine what Ravengram’s like. I just – I guess I’m never going to read any newspaper lighter than _The God’s Way Journal_, ever again.”

“Brienne.” Jaime raised his arm, and Brienne settled against him, her arms around his waist. He ran his fingers through her hair, and gradually, she felt him relax. “It’s your fault, wench, in a way. Since my hand … I’ve mostly only been around you, or Tyrion and Shae and Bronn, or your family. Gilly treats me like any other patient, Sandor treats me like any other incompetent swordsman, and you and Tyrion and your dad treat me like myself. I let myself get used to it.”

“Maybe you should be used to it,” Brienne said. 

He chuckled. “Can you stand me sulking whenever I’m reminded of reality? I’m sorry, wench. Are you alright?”

“Mmm.” She pressed her face against his shoulder. “It’s your fault, in a way. You make me forget that – forget the way I look. You make me forget that it’s surprising that someone who looks like you could find someone who looks like me attractive. I let myself get used to it.”

“Maybe you should be used to it,” Jaime said softly. “I’m sorry I ruined your chance to catch up with the Stark girls.”

“_They_ ruined it,” Brienne said. “Although you didn’t help matters.”

“I’ll do my best to keep a hold of my temper, and my manners, in future.” Jaime’s hand moved from her hair to her back, rubbing small circles between her shoulder-blades. “It just … took me by surprise. I can do better. I will do better.”

Brienne’s phone vibrated again, and she shifted a little to be able to dig it out of her pocket. One new text. _Catelyn Stark._

_I understand from my daughters they have behaved abominably. I hope you and your husband will accept my invitation to lunch tomorrow to give them an opportunity to offer their sincere apologies in person._

“Um, Jaime?” Brienne said. “How do you feel about trying to do better _tomorrow_?”


	76. Jaime XXXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch at Winterfell

Brienne pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car just short of the turn-off for Winterfell. “I can text and say we can’t make it after all,” she said, turning to look at Jaime. “We don’t have to do this.”

Jaime grinned at her. “And pass up the opportunity to have a _Stark_ apologise to _me_? Wench, I’ve been waiting for this since I was seventeen.”

“Jaime …”

He unfastened his seatbelt long enough to lean over and kiss her. “Don’t worry. I’ll behave. I’ll say nice things about poor dead Ned. I’ll ignore them all looking daggers at me, and praise the interesting historical architecture. I’ll even refrain from making any inappropriate jokes. You can’t ask more than that.”

Brienne sighed, but she started the car again.

The chain-link fence, the gate, the trailers, were all gone. _So, thankfully, are the hip-deep snowdrifts. _Brienne drove up to the main gates, and stopped. A small boy waved at the car, and then turned and raced back inside. Jaime could hear him hollering _Mum, Mum, they’re here_, even through the closed windows of the car.

By the time he and Brienne had gotten out of the car, the entire Stark clan had assembled outside the gate to greet them. There was a slight air of _strength in numbers_ about it, as if Catelyn Stark was marshalling her forces to face the invader. _Behave_, Jaime told himself, squashing the temptation to remark exactly that as he reached the family. “Mrs Stark,” he said, offering his hand, as much as he loathed strangers seeing the scars or discovering the weakness of his grip.

“Mr Lannister.” Her tone wasn’t warm, but it was better than icy. “You know Robb, I expect, and I know you’ve met Arya and Sansa. This is Bran, and Rickon. And Jeyne Westerling.”

“Jaime,” Jeyne said with a smile, and stepped forward to kiss his cheek. “Have you heard? I’ve been nominated, for _The Hawk and the Dove_.”

“I thought you might be,” Jaime said, surprised to find he was genuinely pleased for her, not resentful that he didn’t have a chance at the kind of roles that might see _him_ so recognised. “You were really, _really_ good, at least from what I saw.” He took Brienne’s hand and drew her closer. “Do you know Brienne?”

“No, but my friend Roslin speaks highly of her.” Jeyne offered her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Brienne.”

Brienne took it gingerly, as if worried she might accidently break the smaller woman’s fingers in a moment of carelessness. “And you.”

“Have you seen the castle, Mr Lannister?” Catelyn asked.

“Some of it,” Jaime said. “The parts that were open for the _Oathkeeper_ shoot.”

“We don’t keep much open, on a general basis, but if you’d like to see some of the other parts, I’m happy to unlock them.”

_Happy_ might be overstating it, from her tone. Jaime gave Catelyn Stark his best charming smile. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble, but if you would allow me to pay my respects in your Sept?”

Brienne made a small choking sound that she managed to turn into a coughing fit.

Catelyn’s expression thawed a little. “Of course.”

So they all trooped in through the main gates, through one courtyard after another. Jeyne Westerling made a deliberate effort to ignore the lingering tension, and Robb Stark either had the sense to know that bad relations with potential co-stars was bad policy, or else he was so head-over-heels for Jeyne he was willing to follow her lead. The two of them closed ranks with Jaime, pointing out features of the castle as they passed them, exchanging industry gossip and the latest news of new productions. That left Brienne with Catelyn and her other children, but she seemed comfortable in their company, so that was alright. 

Winterfell’s Sept was actually something Jaime would have genuinely wanted to see, if he’d known about it: the seven-sized building was clearly hundreds of years old, as were the statues of the Seven, their feet worn almost away by the touches of generations of worshipers. The paintings on the walls were fresh and bright, but of a style Jaime had never seen, sharp and stylised and surprisingly vivid. He had meant to just spend a few moments with his head respectfully bowed before the Warrior, but found himself wandering from wall to wall, gazing at the pictures in amazement.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Catelyn Stark said, coming to stand beside him as he stared at the image of the Mother with her children gathered around her, ranging in age from young adult to toddler.

“They are. Who is the artist?”

“Originally? No-one knows. Ned had them restored, and then kept them fresh, but they were painted so long ago no-one even knows when.”

And, well, _she’d_ raised the subject of poor dead Ned. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Are you?”

“_Yes_.” He turned to look down at her. For a small woman she had an indomitable physical presence, and Jaime had to fight the urge to take a step back. “I know Ned had no good opinion of me, and I certainly disliked him for that. But I never wished him dead, and if I’d known, I would have called the Cloaks. You can blame me for _not_ knowing, if you like, for having limited imagination.”

“He knew,” Catelyn said. “My Ned knew, about you and your cousin. About the children.”

“It’s a secret I’d wish to keep, for their sake as much as mine,” Jaime said, trying to sound as honest as he in fact was. “But not one I’d _kill_ to keep.”

“Jaime,” Brienne said behind them. She stepped in beside them and laced her fingers through his. “Your Sept is very beautiful, Catelyn. Thank you for showing it to us.”

Catelyn’s expression softened. “Did you see the Warrior? It’s Arya’s favourite.”

“Not yet,” Brienne said, and let Catelyn steer her away.

Jaime moved to study the shrouded face of the Stranger.

“I’m supposed to apologise to you,” Arya Stark said from the vicinity of his elbow.

It was hard to remember she was almost an adult, given her small stature, had to remember she was almost a child given her uncanny resemblance to Eddard Stark. _Down to the ice-grey eyes._ Jaime tried to remember what it had been like to be her age, but all of that had vanished into the sink-hole that was Aerys Targaryen and his death. “You can _not_, and we can say you did,” he offered.

“I’m not a liar.” _Not like you_, hung in the air.

“Look,” Jaime said bluntly. “I know you don’t understand that I love Brienne, but I –”

Arya snorted. “I don’t know how she can love someone like _you_. If you didn’t help your … your _Joffrey_ kill Dad, why didn’t you come to the funeral?”

“I didn’t think me being there would make the day any easier for any of you,” Jaime said. It was mostly true: he’d also had a stomach flu that had knocked him flat. “I made a donation to the Wolfswood Wildlife Preservation Fund. I thought your father would want that, more than flowers.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “He would have. How did you know?”

Jaime grinned. “He only mentioned it in every speech he ever gave, whether he was winning an award or presenting one. Look. You don’t have to like me, and you don’t have to apologise to me. But can we not make Brienne unhappy?”

She studied him, and then gave a single decisive nod. “If you hurt her, I’ll make you pay.”

“If I hurt her, you have my permission to do so,” Jaime said.

So, alright, Catelyn Stark was willing to tolerate him, and Arya Stark was at least withholding judgement, and Brienne was studying the painting of the Warrior and nodding at what Catelyn was saying, so things were going at least as well as Jaime could have hoped and considerably better than he’d expected.

They ate lunch in the long building that the Starks used as their family quarters, on a balcony overlooking the godswood, and Jaime didn’t have to feign his interest in Winterfell’s history, the hot springs and glass gardens that had kept the castle liveable in winter in the days before electricity and insulation, the different ages of the buildings. That thawed Catelyn further until she suggested Robb take Jaime and Brienne up to the top of the walls after lunch. Brienne begged off, because Arya wanted to demonstrate something she’d been learning from her fencing teacher to her, so Jaime followed Robb up the uneven stone stairs alone.

The view was as magnificent as Jaime remembered, although out over green grass rather than deep drifts of snow. _Snow had fallen, snow on snow_, that had been the song the Mance had sung. _In the bleak midwinter, long, long ago._

“Have you heard any more about _Oathkeeper_?” he asked Robb.

The young man shook his head. “By the time it gets out of development Seven Hells, if it ever does, I’ll probably end up with a conflict. Shame. I really did want to play the Young Wolf.”

“White Wolf,” Jaime corrected absently. “The King of Winter was the White Wolf.”

“The Night’s King, you mean. The White Wolf was the Night’s King, up at the Wall. The one-thousandth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, with a bride as white as snow.”

“That must be what I’m thinking of,” Jaime said. He’d misremembered, or jumbled it together, dreaming in Abel’s tent, the way Brienne had with her dreams of Goldenhand. “All those Wolves, it’s hard to keep them straight. The Young Wolf, the White Wolf, the Hungry Wolf, the Quiet Wolf …”

Robb leaned his elbows on the battlements. “Likely more than a few of them were different names for the same man. Or woman.”

“Honestly, and for what my opinion is worth, you’re better off if the film doesn’t get made, or gets made with someone else.” Jaime leaned beside him. “The script wasn’t exactly brilliant.”

“_You_ signed on for it.”

“I’ve made a lot of bad films,” Jaime pointed out. “But I mean, if you want to play the Young Wolf one day, you want it to be in a good film that will give you a fighting chance of giving a good performance.”

Robb sighed. “Whatever I do, there’ll be someone saying Dad did it first, and better.” He straightened up. “Come on. I’ll show you the rookery.”

So they inspected the rookery, and the family library, although the most valuable books were in the Oldtown Citadel Library where they could be properly preserved. Jaime met the family dogs, none of whom were as huge as Jon Snow’s Ghost but were all pretty sizeable nonetheless, and then they joined the others watching Arya dancing around Brienne with a small, narrow tourney sword.

Finally the girl tired, and stopped. “I killed you a dozen times!”

“Not if I was wearing armour,” Brienne pointed out. “But you’re getting really good. I’ll definitely bet on you when you enter a tourney.”

Before they took their leave, Sansa Stark gave Jaime and then Brienne a very pretty and apparently heartfelt apology, so that was at least one Stark apology Jaime could rack up to his credit as they started down the Kingsroad towards Moat Cailin.

“I should buy the rights,” he said as they passed the turnoff to Castle Cerwyn.

“To Winterfell?”

“To _Oathkeeper_. I bet Highgarden Productions would be happy to off-load it. There’s next to no chance it can be made with even some of the original cast this year, maybe even not next. Plenty of time to rewrite the script and make it sensible.”

“Mmm,” Brienne said. “If it was next year, you’d probably be good enough to play Lion again.”

“Fuck, no,” Jaime said. “_If_ I get it made, wench, I fully intend to be Goldenhand the Just.” He turned to grin at her. “And you, Brienne Tarth, will be the Blue Knight.”

“She’s not even in the film!” Brienne said. “And I’m not an actor.”

“It’s a skill, not a gift from the Seven. You could learn. I could teach you. Besides, I’d get a good director, and ninety-nine percent of what you learn as an actor is how to deal with being badly directed.”

“Jaime.” Brienne bit her lip. “I’m not … you know.” She made a vague gesture in his direction. “Like you.”

“Male? It’s a female role.”

“Pretty,” Brienne burst out. “No-one is going to want to go to the movies to look at _me_ blown up to forty times life size, are they? Unless they like freakshows, and I get enough of being regarded as a freak in my everyday life, thank you.” 

_Oh, Brienne. _Jaime put his hand on her knee. “Wench. Wife. You don’t look like Margaery Tyrell or Asha Greyjoy, but you’re hardly a _freak_. And I’m fairly sure that the number of hits on the RookTube videos of you fighting demonstrate that quite a lot of people would go to the movies to see you doing just that, but with special effects and exciting music. If you’re worried about how you look, we’ll put you in a helmet.”

“A helmet?” Brienne chewed her lip.

“One that lets people see your beautiful blue eyes, of course.”

She coloured a little. “Jaime …”

“And perhaps your pretty mouth.”

“Jaime.”

“And at least some of your sweet freckles.” He squeezed her knee. “You may as well say yes, wench. I’m going to wear you down eventually. I have at least a year to do it.”


	77. Brienne XXXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new normal.

They made their way down the Kingsroad at a leisurely pace, stopping at Moat Cailin, and the Twins – Jaime insisted they pay the premium for one of the Red Wedding bedrooms and stayed up half the night watching for ghosts – and then the Crossroads Inn. When they reached King’s Landing, it turned out that Joy Hill had been right: _One Thousand Eyes And One_ having dedicated an entire episode to Ulwyck Uller’s story about Jaime Lannister and his extremely complicated personal life, he was most definitely not still hot news. There were no longer camera crews and journalists and paparazzi camped out outside Jaime’s apartment building, and though when they went out to dinner after unpacking Brienne caught sight of Meryn Trant lurking with a long-lens camera, well, if Petyr Baelish wanted to pay for photos of the two of them looking at a menu, they were his dragons to waste.

Apart from Trant’s intermittent lurking, life settled back into a normal pace. _Or as normal as anything involving Jaime Lannister is, anyway_, Brienne thought to herself a week later as she slipped as unobtrusively as someone of her size could around the crowd outside the premiere of _The Hawk and The Dove. _Everyone’s attention was on Jeyne Westerling, arm-in-arm with Robb Stark, and on Jaime. _My wife’s already inside_, he said cheerfully to questions about why he was walking the red carpet alone. _Saving me a seat_.

The film was actually pretty good, although Brienne saw the second half through tear-blurred vision after the Mockingbird stabbed Jaime in the back and he staggered to raise the alarm before collapsing and dying in Jeyne Westerling’s arms with a final whispered _my lady. _Jaime put his arm around her shoulders and didn’t make fun of her, although he did point out that he died in just about every film he’d ever made and she’d surely seen him die before.

“It’s _different_,” Brienne sniffed, and Jaime kissed her cheek and sat with her in the movie theatre until she could pull herself together enough to join the party in the foyer.

Everyone was very beautiful and very well dressed. Brienne was used to being surrounded by the gorgeous glitterati from working for Renly Baratheon, but she was used to being invisible as staff and not hand-in-hand with someone who was actually on first-name-terms with Garlan Tyrell and Barristan Selmy. She tugged at the neckline of her blouse, trying to raise it a little higher – _why did I let Shae talk me into buying this – _and desperately wished she was shorter, and less obtrusive, or at least less tongue-tied.

All she could think of to say to Barristan Selmy was _Volantis is my favourite movie_, which she immediately realised was worse than not saying anything at all, but his pale blue eyes twinkled kindly at her. He told her a story about one of the donkeys escaping and rampaging through the set that made her laugh so much she forgot to be nervous for a while. Jaime was deep in conversation with Garlan about the latter’s yet-to-be-released _Pirates of Pyke_ and the difficulties of filming fight scenes on an actual ship, _Rodrik Harlaw is a lunatic, Jaime, I’m never working with him again_. _What’s wrong with a sound-stage and a hose? _so Brienne went over to say hello to Roslin Frey, who was there with her _Pretty in Platemail _co-star, Edmure Tully. Edmure, it turned out, was Catelyn Stark’s younger brother. For a while Brienne completely forgot that she was talking to actual famous people in a room full of other famous people as she filled him in on Arya’s fencing lessons and Sansa’s new job with _Freefolk Fortnightly_, covering local politics rather than celebrity gossip. Then Margaery Tyrell came over to tell Brienne she’d seen her on _One Thousand Eyes And One_ and she’d been _marvellous, darling, simply marvellous, I can’t wait for the cloaking_, which was a little puzzling but at least the interview she’d endured seemed to have gone well. After Margaery, there were several other people Brienne only vaguely recognised who wanted to talk about tourneys and the difference between that and stunt work, and did she train with Sandor Clegane like Jaime did, and was he any good. _Yes, very good_, Brienne was happy to be able to say, and gave Sandor’s number to anyone who asked for it, including a rangy red-haired man who introduced himself as _Jaime’s cousin, Addam._

“There you are,” Jaime said, slipping his arm around Brienne’s waist. “Is this reprobate bothering you?” 

“Reprobate, I like that from _you_, old man,” Addam said cheerfully. “Are you going to come be in my film? I need an extra who I don’t need to pay.”

“You’re finally making _Gravedigger_? Of course. When do you shoot?”

“Starts next month.” Addam grinned. “Although I don’t have a lead I can afford yet.”

“Shit, Addam, I’m sorry. I’m in Dorne for three months filming with Doran Martell, starting a week from Tuesday.”

Addam raised his eyebrows. “Three months? Don’t tell me you _live_ in this one.”

“Until the last ten minutes, anyway. So what sort of budget did you screw out of father?”

“Little and less,” Addam said ruefully. “But I’ve got permission to film on location at the Quiet Isle, and if the weather holds we can get the outdoor shots done in a couple of weeks.”

Jaime laughed. “Oh, you sweet summer child. You have worked on one or two productions before, I thought?”

“Allow me my dreams of a trouble-free shoot, coz. I wrote the script five years ago, it’s taken me this long to get your father to green-light it, if I go over time I’ll go over budget and it’ll be one more failed attempt by a first-time director.”

“I’ll talk to Tyrion,” Jaime offered. “Or, Seven Hells, Addam, I can probably scramble up the money myself, if you need.”

Addam grinned, but he looked unhappy. “Ah, Jaime, and then your father …”

Brienne felt Jaime stiffen a little, although the arm around her waist was still gentle. “It all comes back to Tywin Lannister, doesn’t it?”

“I need the work,” Addam said. “You know I do.”

“Yeah.” Jaime’s voice had gone tight in the way that Brienne hated. “Look, if you change your mind let me know.”

Brienne put her hand over his. “Jaime, I feel a bit as if I could use some air.”

“Are you alright?” he asked immediately. “Do you want to go?”

“Do you need to stay?”

He shook his head. “I’ve made an appearance and kissed all the requisite asses, and arses.”

“Then let’s go,” Brienne said. 

They picked up Pentoshi take-away on the way home and ate it lying on the couch watching _The Valyrian Falcon_ and then _The Fairmarket Story_ and after a while Jaime stopped looking grim and started explaining why the latter film was Olenna Tyrell’s greatest performance before she switched from acting to directing and how comedy was harder than drama.

He was out of sorts for a few days afterwards, though, quieter than usual, until Tyrion cheered him up by calling with the news that Olenna was willing to let the _Oathkeeper_ property go so long as she retained the right of first refusal to direct.

“Fortunately she hates my father almost as much as she hates sweet Cersei,” Jaime said, grinning at Brienne. “And doing me a favour is one thing absolutely guaranteed to enrage him.” He spent the next several evenings ignoring the television in favour of pecking out weirmails on his laptop and asking her _how many legs on a dragon, again?_ and _would you need a larger set of armour in really deep winter, to wear more layers underneath? _and _what would be the best way to kill a large spider, like, dog-sized?_

_Four_, she said, and _no, wouldn’t you just put more layers over it? _and _you’d need to get the legs off it, straight away, wouldn’t you? Or go for the eyes. _

When he left for Dorne, Brienne went with him. A meeting with Tyrion having left her reeling a little at just how much the courts had decided Petyr Baelish’s slander was worth in damages, Brienne didn’t argue about the first-class tickets, just insisted on paying for her own. 

The shoot was an hour’s drive west from Vaith, deep in the red sand waste. A whole town of trailers and tents had been erected, with wooden boardwalks connecting them. It was the only sign of human life from one edge of the horizon to the other, and the heat, even before full summer, was scorching. Brienne was happy to retreat to their trailer and its air-conditioning while Jaime worked, only emerging to make sure that he had the correct sides for that day’s shooting and that craft services was keeping the actors sufficiently hydrated. She met Doran Martell, gravely courteous in his motorised wheelchair, and Oswell Whent, who played the film’s hero, and Arianne Martell, who was, predictably, _everybody’s _love interest. And Arthur Dayne, who’d come out of retirement to play the villain, which meeting left Brienne almost as tongue-tied as when she’d met Barristan Selmy. 

Apart from that, she lay on the couch in Jaime’s trailer, directly under the soothing blast of cool air, and finished reading _Sun and Spear_ and then started on _She-Wolves of Winterfell: A re-assessment of the roles of women in northern military campaigns. _Once a day she braved the heat and worked with the stunt co-ordinator, Areo Hotah, helping him raise the fitness of the talent while maintaining her own. Arthur Dayne had brought his tourney swords with him to the shoot, and cajoled Brienne into giving him a match one afternoon. He was terrifyingly good, despite his age, biding his time rather than coming at her recklessly. Brienne was stronger, and faster, but he was the one who ended with his sword at her throat saying _yield_.

_Show me how you did that_, she asked, and he did. He still disarmed her on their second bout, but it took longer, and it was Arthur fucking Dayne, so Brienne didn’t feel too bad about it.

Jaime came back exhausted at the end of every day’s shooting, but at least the outdoor shoots were dependent on natural light and he wasn’t working into the evening. _Sound stage_, he said when Brienne asked about the interior scenes, and promptly fell asleep with his face pressed to her neck.

So, alright, being married to Jaime Lannister apparently meant hanging around a film set in scorching heat, mostly amusing herself. Still, Brienne felt her heart lift a little when Sandor Clegane sent her a text saying he had a job on a film shoot and there was a role in stunts for her if she wanted.

“You should do it,” Jaime said that night, half-asleep. “I mean, I’ll miss you, but you’re good at stunt work.”

“I haven’t ever really done any,” Brienne pointed out.

“Well, you _will_ be good at it. That’s the first thing I thought, at Winterfell, when I watched those clips Sandor made. That you were good.” He shrugged. “I mean, it’s different in costume and on a set, than in rehearsal, but you’ll get used to that pretty quickly. And the practice will stand you in good stead when you play the Blue Knight.”

Brienne snorted. “_If_. If I play the Blue Knight, which I highly doubt will happen.”

“So little faith in me,” Jaime mumbled sleepily. “My poor wounded ego …”

“I just don’t think you’ll get a director to agree,” Brienne said. “Surely you can see that it’s unlikely. Jaime?”

He was asleep.

The next day, Brienne sent a message to Sandor saying she was up for the work. Shortly afterwards she got a weirmail from Davos Seaworth with a contract – which she forwarded to Tyrion – and instructions to be at the Hayford Castle studios by Monday next. “It’s only a few weeks,” she told Jaime as she packed. “It’s a small film, they’re shooting quickly.”

“I wish _this_ was a small film.” Jaime sprawled on the bed. “Or at least that more of it was on a soundstage and not in the fucking desert. At least I’ve only got one week of shooting on a horse.” He grinned at her. “And you won’t be here for it, so you’ll only ever see the final footage of me being suave and manly and not all the falling off I’ll probably do.”

“Try not to fall on your head,” Brienne said, kissed him, and headed for the airport.


	78. Ravens V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravens between various people. (some from Jaime's phone, some from Brienne's.)

07:31 B Tarth: _Jaime did you make your cousin Addam offer me this job?_

07:32 Jaime L: _No r you on gravedigger?_

07:35 B Tarth: _Yes._

08:32 Jaime L: _Who is the lead_

09:55 B Tarth: _Sandor is_

10:34 Jaime L: _Addam may have bigger balls than I thought. Can he act? Samdor I mean_

11:09 B Tarth: _How should I know?_

12:58 Jaime L: _wench you watch tv and moives _

13:44 B Tarth: _He’s good I guess? I mean he’s just fighting, but he looks like he’s fighting?_

14:19 Jaime L: _did addam shoot the QI stuff alreddy? _

15:55 B Tarth: _yes. _

17:09 Jaime L: _srry wnech had 2 fall off horse for a bit. Have you got yr costume yet?_

17:35 B Tarth: _Three. I am in the Brotherhood without Banners, the City Guard and some lord’s retinue. _

18:02 Jaime L: _Same characer? _

18:47 B Tarth: _Different. Helmets. _

19:11 Jaime L: _Addam’s budget forcing authencity. Silver lining._

19:35 B Tarth: _Did catering remember you changed your dinner order?_

19:42 Jaime L: _Yes nanny wnch. And I drank all my water and stayed out of the sun in the mddle of the day. _

19:43 Jaime L: _Did you get dinner_

20:11 B Tarth: _Honey glazed boar ribs._

20:12 Jaime L: _If I didn’t love you Id hate you 4 being able to eat anything you want_

20:12 Jaime L: _I mean id never haet you really._

20:15 B Tarth: _I know Jaime. I love you too._

20:16 Jaime L: _how wd you kill a dragon?_

20:20 B Tarth: _Very carefully._

20:22 Jaime L: _Hilarious wench but really tho’_

20:22 Jaime L: _Weirnet says underbelly_

20:25 B Tarth: _No scales would be too tough. Unless it was a young dragon. _

20:28 Jaime L: _and if not?_

20:34 B Tarth: _The eye is the only weak point. _

20:38 Jaime L: _How wd you make it lte you get near its eye?_

20:42 B Tarth: _I guess it’s a two person job?_

20:45 Jaime L: _wench you’re a genius. _

20:46 Jaime L: _R you busy?_

20:52 B Tarth: _Just learning my fights. _

20:53 Jaime L: _want 2 have phone sex?_

20:54 B Tarth: _Jaime!_

20:54 Jaime L: _Is that yes?_

20:57 B Tarth: _Jaime I can’t do phone sex. _

20:58 Jaime L: _youre blushing right now aren’t you_

20:59 Jaime L: _admit it_

21:02 B Tarth: _Yes I am._

21:04 Jaime L: _Ive got a hard-on imagining it_

21:05 B Tarth: _Jaime! You can’t text me about that._

21:06 Jaime L: _wench we’re married. It’s not loke I’m ravening dick-pics to some random starlet._

21:07 Jaime L: _wd you like a dick-pic? _

21:08 B Tarth: _Jaime do not send me a picture of that_. _What if someone stole or hacked my phone?_

21:11 Jaime L: _Shocking Star Story: Jaime Lannister turned on by wife. Live at five._

21:12 Jaime L: _Somehow doubt it would make Westeros-wide news_

21:13 Jaime L: _wat r you wearing?_

21:15 B Tarth: _T-shirt and jeans._

21:16 Jaime L: _hot. What colour t shirt?_

21:20 B Tarth: _Blue. _

21:21 Jaime L: _Nice I’ll leave it on you. taking off your jeans now tho’_

21:22 B Tarth: _My jeans are still on, Jaime._

21:23 Jaime L: _no they aren’t. I’m kissing your leg. Your naked leg. _

21:25 B Tarth: _Jaime!_

21:26 Jaime L: _it’s so hot when you say my name like that_

21:28: B Tarth: _I am not saying it that way. _

21:29 Jaime L: _I beg to differ. _

21:29 Jaime L: _I’m kissing your knee now. The inside of your thigh. Working my way up._

21:30 B Tarth: _Jaime I’ll trun my phone off. _

21:31 Jaime L: _K._

21:31 Jaime L: _Sorry_ _wench r you alright?_

21:32 Jaime L: _relly sorry didn’t mean to upset you_

21:32 Jaime L: _wench?_

21:34 B Tarth: _I’m fine, Jaime. You just can’t say such things. It’s embarrassing._

21:35 Jaime L: _can I think them?_

21:36 B Tarth: _yes._

21:39 B Tarth: _I think them too._

21:45 B Tarth: _Sorry I shouldn’t have said that._

21:48 Jaime L: _No wench you absolutely shd sorry was distracted_

21:49 Jaime L: _I miss you._

21:50 B Tarth: _I_ _miss you too. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken this job._

21:51 Jaime L: _no wench you shd do stuff you’re good at. _

21:52 Jaime L: _also I could say things about watching you fight on screen in full cotsume but you wd block me b4 I got to the good bits _

21:52 Jaime L: _Was that 2 much innuedno? _

21:54 B Tarth: _No Jaime that was the perfect amount of innuendo. _

21:55 Jaime L: _Good 2 know. Can I talk about your eyes?_

21:57 B Tarth: _Yes_

21:58 Jaime L: _They were the first thing I noticed about you. So blue and pretty._

22:00 B Tarth: _Your eyes are very pretty too._

22:01 Jaime L: _Jaime Lannister is unavaillable to answer your raven as he has been crushed by the rapid inflation of his ego. _

22:05 B Tarth: _Surely I am not the first person to tell you that you have nice eyes. _

22:05 Jaime L: _1st person I cared about tho_

22:06 Jaime L: _cersy never_

22:06 Jaime L: _Sorry didn’t men to send._

22:07: B Tarth: _It’s alright you can talk about her if you want. _

22:12 Jaime L: _she just said we were alike_

22:12 B Tarth: _one moment, need to check something_

22:16 B Tarth: _her eyes are more hazel than yours. Yours are really green, hers aren’t._

22:18 B Tarth: _Jaime? _

22:19 Jaime L: _R you busy wench?_

22:19 B Tarth: _No just waiting for you to call. _

* * *

06:45 Jaime L: _I hope you had a good breakfast wench_

06.58: B Tarth: _bacon and egg sandwich_

07.35 Jaime L: _good choice I had omelette. _

07.36 Jaime L: _what are you fimiling today?_

07:50 B Tarth: _Fight in cave. I am BwB # 3. I die in fifth minute._

08:24 Jaime L: _Travesty. You wd last 6 at least_

08.29 B Tarth: _Have to go, first call_

08:30 Jaime L: _break a leg wnech_

11:22 B Tarth: _I did not break any limbs_

12:54 Jaime L: _Good 2 no. neither did I _

13:33 B Tarth: _I am now dead and off for the rest of the day_

14:45 Jaime L: _jealous_

14:46 Jaime L: _how fast cd a dragon turn do you think?_

14:53 B Tarth: _Do the laws of physics apply to magical creatures? Because if so a large dragon would be hindered by its bulk especially in a small space_

15:29 Jaime L: _wench your still a genius_

15:35 B Tarth: _Are you putting a dragon in Oathkeeper?_

16:38 Jaime L: _Yes Goldenhand and the Blue Knight will kill it._

16:46 B Tarth: _I had a dream like that. _

17:22 Jaime L: _you said, its what gave me the idea_

17:40 B Tarth: _Are you rewriting the script yourself?_

18:13 Jaime L:_7 hells no. I thought I’d ask willas tyrell. Bu tneed to work out what 2 change 1st. _

18:22 B Tarth: _Besides the dragon?_

19:15 Jaime L: _im not having the Long Night end with vampire trope #3 that’s for sure _

19:18 Jaime L: _fucking ridiculous_

20:17 Jaime L: _what if the Young Wold is the Night’s King? Wd that work do you think_

20:24 B Tarth: _The one who joined the Cold Gods? Isn’t he supposed to be the hero?_

20:30 Jaime L: _the cold gods have a queen. Young wolf marries her and becomes 1 of them. So peace treaty._

20:35 B Tarth: _Won’t people expect a happy ending?_

20:38 Jaime L: _it will be just not for him. Or rose. Maybe she has his baby tho_

20:42 B Tarth: _Motherhood as a consolation prize. _

20:43 Jaime L: _I sense dispproval. What if she is queen in the north 2?_

20:44 Jaime L: _besides they’re the B plot and sidekicks die_

20:48 B Tarth: _How is the Young Wolf the sidekick in a film about the Long Night?_

20:53 Jaime L: _called Oathkeeper, remember. Its y the script was so lopsided. Writers didn’t know b plot from a plot._

20:57 B Tarth: _So you are casting yourself as the lead?_

21:04 Jaime L: _2 much you think?_

21:07 B Tarth: _No I think you’d be great. How does it end?_

21:09 Jaime L: _not sure. Maybe willas will know. wat do you think?_

21:13 B Tarth: _Someone needs to get a happy ending. Otherwise it just feels like, what’s the point?_

21:14 Jaime L: _Volantis doesn’t have a hppy ending_

21:16 B Tarth: _Yes, it does._

21:18 Jaime L: _wench Barristan puts elia on the boat. _

21:20 B Tarth: _But they’ll always have Pentos._

21:22 Jaime L: _we’ll always have skagos but I wdn’t say never seeing you again would be a happy ending_

21:25 B Tarth: _Yes but it’s war. They chose to do what’s right, rather than what’s selfish. Their honour is greater than their passion, that’s why their love is true. That’s why they’ll always have Pentos. If she stayed it would destroy everything about what that means. _

21:28 Jaime L: _If you love some1 put them on a boat with another man?_

21:29 Jaime L: _wench im not putting you on any boats unless im going 2. _

21:30 Jaime L: _does that mean I don’t love you really?_

21:31 B Tarth: _No because this isn’t a movie! _

21:32 Jaime L: _wd you put me on a boat? In the movie?_

21:33 B Tarth: _To save your life, and help win the war? _

21:34 Jaime L: _is that a trick question?_

21:35 Jaime L: _I wdn’t go_

21:36 B Tarth: _To save my life?_

21:37 Jaime L: _k yes I wd go. But there is no boat in Oathkeeper anyway. _

21:41 B Tarth: _what if he went to the IceWall? As part of the peace treaty._

21:42 Jaime L: _how is that happy?_

21:44 B Tarth: _Maybe the Blue Knight goes with him. Maybe they guard the realms of men together._

21:45 Jaime L: _maybe they tell the realms of men to go fuck themselves and retire to a nice castle somewhere_

21:46 B Tarth: _You could just have them ride off together and let the audience decide._

21:48 Jaime L: _into the sunset. No, sunrise. _

21:49 Jaime L: _wench know I’m early but can I call _

21:51 B Tarth: _Yes. _

* * *

09:15 Unknown number: _Hi, Jaime Lannister gave me your number. I’m Willas Tyrell, he said I should ask you any questions I have about dragons?_

09:45 B Tarth: _I can try to help but he has an exaggerated idea of my expertise. _

09:55 W Tyrell: _Not like they’re real. How big do they get?_

11:43 B Tarth: _They ranged in size from a cat to … well the biggest one had a skull the size of a carriage, reportedly. _

12:15 W Tyrell: _Could someone even kill one that big?_

13:34 B Tarth: _Wouldn’t it depend on its brain structure? I mean, you would have to stab it in the eye but people have survived things like that sometimes. And you’d only have one chance. _

13:44 W Tyrell: _They had claws too right? As well as wings and fire._

14:32 B Tarth: _Yes_

14:40 W Tyrell: _okay thank you._

* * *

10:15 Pegleg: _Do you want me to go ahead and start on the full rewrites or do you want to wait until you have funding attached?_

10:45 Me: _Can I affrd you? _

10:45 Me:_ also do you think it’s woth making?_

10:50 Pegleg: _Yes. To both. It’s going to cost a lot, though. Huge amount of CGI. Also I have some suggestions._

11:45 Me: _good id be worried if you didn’t_

11:58 Pegleg: _You should cut the whole Lion subplot, it’s one of the things pulling the story off balance. Also make the Young Wolf and Rose married from the beginning so there’s only one developing romance. About the end. Goldenhand should go with the Young Wolf so the Young Wolf’s sacrifice is still about your lead’s character development. Then when he comes back and takes the cold gods away, you can just end it with Goldenhand and the Blue Knight. _

13:58 Me: _all sounds good go ahead weirmail me the treatment and I’ll look for funding_

14:11 Pegleg: _Also can I suggest you make the dragon smaller._

15:47 Me: _y I want the fight to be epic_

16:15 Pegleg: _Your wife says it would be hard to kill a really large one._

16:50 Me: _k make it smaller. Not 2 small._

17:15 Pegleg: _it’s a magic creature that flies and breathes fire even if it’s the size of a cat it’s going to be a challenge to kill one without a machine gun. _

18:22 Me: _do not put machine guns in my movie_

18:22 Me: _also do not make my dragon the size of a cat_

* * *

19:22 Me: _Hey Jeyne can I have Robb’s number?_

19:38 Jeyne Dove: _Sure, one minute._

* * *

06:32 Me: _hey robb you still want to play Young Wolf_

06:38 Robb Wolf: _yes_

07:15 Me: _even if not lead?_

07:50 Robb Wolf: _how is the Young Wolf not the lead in a movie about the Long Night?_

09:35 Me: _he’s hero but not lead. _

10:40 Robb Wolf: _send the script to my agent._

11:23 Me: _your agent will say no. it’s a good role tho. White wolf and young wofl combined. _

12:42 Robb Wolf: _how does that work?_

14:37 Me: _sorry was getting fitted for blood bag. Start dying tomorrow. _

14:38 Me: _young wolf ends the long night by becoming king of the others. Leaves his bride and child behind to guard the realms of men by leaving the realms of men. _

17:12 Robb Wolf: _send me the script_

* * *

06:31 Jaime L: _goodmorning wench_

06:34 B Tarth: _good morning Jaime. _

06:45 Jaime L: _I wish you were here so I could do something productoive with something I won’t embarrass you by mentioning _

06:48 B Tarth: _only three more days shooting here. Also thank you for not mentioning._

07:42 Jaime L: _wench I miss you something awful_

09:26 B Tarth: _I miss you too. _

10:48 Jaime L: _so it’s normal?_

11:32 B Tarth: _Yes._

12:45 Jaime L: _k good to know. _

13:34 Jaime L: _still don’t enjoy it tho_

14:21 Jaime L: _what r you shooting today?_

15:50 B Tarth: _Gravedigger’s fight with the city guards_. _It’s on a staircase._

16:29 Jaime L: _Shit that sucks. _

17:32 Jaime L: _I spent the day dying thank the 7 the light’s gone_

17:33 Jaime L: _I have fake blood everywhere. Up my nose. _

17:34 Jaime L: _also sand. Blood and sand. In places I won’t mention because you wd be upset_

18:32 Jaime L: _Brienne? Did I upset you?_

18:45 Jaime L: _Wench?_

19:03 B Tarth: _sorry was not upset just busy_

19:04 B Tarth _so good news I have finished shooting_

19:05 Jaime L: _wench I have seen enough movies to ask what is the bad news_

19:07 B Tarth: _I have a mildly sprained wrist. And some bruises. _

19:08 Jaime L: _I will fuckign kill addam what the fuck stafety standards does he have_

19:09 B Tarth: _It wasn’t his fault. I just tripped. _

19:10 Jaime L: _shd not happen on well run production fuck r you ok_

19:11 B Tarth: _Jaime it’s a sprain. _

19:11 Jaime L: _r you sure did you get xray?_

19:12 B Tarth: _Yes. They took me to Hayford Hospital. It’s a sprain._

19:13 Jaime L: _k peck will pick you up in morning and take you to airport. Will c you tomorrow._


	79. Jaime XXXII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Dorne ... NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, just to let you know, updates are going to be coming a bit more slowly for a bit. Nothing's wrong! I'm just a) writing longer chapters which means it takes me more days to write them and b) reached a bit of the story where I need some plotty things to happen (which also makes the writing slower) and I need to hold back chapters in case I need to say 'oh, wait, this conversation needs to go completely differently which means the conversation last chapter needs to be a bit different' and stuff like that.

When Peck pulled up at the gates and Brienne got out of the car, her right wrist was bandaged and the right side of her face was bruised and Jaime wanted to kill someone. Specifically Addam Marband, whose lack of attention to safety details had put Brienne at risk and resulted in her being hurt.

“It’s just a sprain,” Brienne said as he settled her into the bed in his trailer while Peck unpacked her bags. “Honestly, Jaime. If you’re going to carry on like this over a sprain, what are you going to be like at the next tourney?”

“I’ll restrain myself while you’re fighting and coddle you afterwards,” Jaime said, fetching her an icepack. “Here, put your arm up on these pillows.”

Brienne sighed, and let him prop her right arm up. “It’s not even a bad sprain. It’s barely a sprain at all. I could have driven myself, you know. You didn’t need to make Peck fly down with me.”

“Have you got something to read? My laptop is on the bedside table, if you want to watch something. Can you reach your phone?”

“Yes, Jaime, I can reach my phone,” Brienne said patiently. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere pretending to be shot, or something?”

“My call for makeup is in ten minutes. Are you hungry? I can get someone to bring you something to eat. Or Peck can.”

“Jaime,” Brienne said. “Thank you for taking care of me. Please stop now.”

He kissed her, careful of her bruises, kissed her again, and tore himself away to go and get himself covered in fake blood for the second day in a row.

Thank the Seven for well-trained stunt horses, at least. Jaime’s mount for the shoot was called Sugar and Oswell Whent’s was called Treacle, and they were both as sweet-natured as their names suggested. After the first take, Sugar barely needed Jaime’s urging to turn off the trail and stop for him to half-fall from the saddle, and she stood like a rock once he’d dismounted. It took them only five takes for Doran to be satisfied, and then they all stood around with umbrellas to keep the sun off while crew scurried around resetting for the reverse shot and Oswell’s reaction.

“I can do this alone, you know,” Oswell said to him. “Get your stand-in to do it, and get out of the heat.”

“It’s never the same, though, is it?” Jaime said. “I’ll stay.”

So then he half-fell off Sugar six more times while Oswell showed restrained concern. By then the light had shifted enough that Doran wanted to shift to the outdoor portions of the climatic gunfight, which Jaime wasn’t in, so he went back to wardrobe to be divested of his costume, changed into a T-shirt and shorts, and went back to his trailer to wait for his next call.

He was leafing through his call-sheet confirming it was the early-evening conversation with Arthur Dayne that he remembered when he heard Brienne gasp, and looked up to see her standing in the door to the trailer’s bedroom, brilliant blue eyes wide. “Jaime, what happened? Are you … let me see, where’s the set maester –”

“It’s fake.” Jaime caught her hands as she reached for him. “It’s fake, Brienne, it’s sugar syrup and dye, it’s not blood, I’m not hurt.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Yes. Sorry. You did say.”

Her hands trembled in his, and he wanted to hug her, but he was all over fake blood and sand. “I’ve got to wash all this off before my next call, I’ll just be a moment, alright?”

Brienne nodded.

“Come on.” Jaime tugged her into the trailer’s bathroom, shedding his clothes as he went. “We got it down both ways today, which puts us ahead of schedule.” Turning the shower to lukewarm, he stepped into it. “Which means I’ll probably have to do the rest of the scene over the next few days, and then not long before we’re on the soundstage doing interiors.” Red sluiced off him under the spray of water and mingled with grains of sand on the floor of the shower. “Which will be in Lemonwood, which is decidedly more civilised that this.”

“I’ve never been to Lemonwood,” Brienne said. Jaime heard clothing rustle, and then the door to the shower cubicle opened and closed again, and her arms slipped around his waist.

“Your wrist.” It was a half-hearted protest.

“It’s a bandage, not a cast.” She kissed his ear, and when he turned his head, his cheek, his mouth. “I missed you.”

“I missed you.”

“I’ll wash your back if you wash mine.”

Jaime gave her his best comical leer, complete with eyebrow waggle. “Can I wash your front as well?”

Brienne smiled. “Yes, please.”

What with one thing or another, Jaime was almost late to his last wardrobe call of the day and he was definitely more relaxed than his character was supposed to be at this point in the script. And a little distracted, if he was being honest, by the knowledge that Brienne was dozing naked in his bed and that as soon as he wrapped for the day he could join her. He managed to hit his marks and say his lines, though, and Doran seemed satisfied with what he saw on the monitor, so alright, perhaps _freshly fucked_ was what the director wanted from the character at this point anyway.

Four takes one way, two on the reverse – Arthur Dayne was a professional of the old school – and Jaime was free to return to wardrobe and then to Brienne.

She was out of bed, wrapped in his bathrobe, which was momentarily disappointing, but catering had delivered their dinners and Brienne had hooked his laptop up to the TV and found the director’s cut of _The Man In the Valyrian Steel Mask_ on RookTube and honestly, curling up in bed with her was pretty fantastic but so was watching one of the masterpieces of black-and-white film-making with her head on his shoulder while he stole her fries and she pretended to be annoyed about it.

“I’m not entirely sure what I did to deserve life being this great,” he said sleepily as the credits rolled.

Brienne leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Silly man.”

Then she took him to bed and they each made sure they’d get a good night’s sleep.

The next day he had to film his actual death, which was made a little more complicated, this time, by Sugar’s sweet nature, because she kept nudging him with her muzzle as he slumped in the sand, as if worried about why he wouldn’t get up. Jaime eventually just reached up and rubbed her nose when she did it, to keep her out of his face, and went on with his lines. Doran Martell called _cut and print_ not long after that, so alright, it wasn’t a wrong decision. They reset for the long shots, and Jaime spent the time rubbing Sugar’s neck and stroking her face and reassuring her that there wasn’t really anything wrong with him, he’d just been sitting on the ground for inexplicable human reasons. _And when did I start caring about a horse’s feelings_, except that wasn’t the question, really. _When did I start admitting I cared about a horse’s feelings_, and the answer was _Brienne, Brienne was when I started admitting I cared, about anything_ and fuck, it was a good thing he could blame allergies for his watering eyes.

They did the long shots, they did the reverses, and then Jaime was done for the rest of the location shoot. Peck drove the two of them to Lemonwood before flying back to King’s Landing, and they had three days before the rest of the production caught up – which they spent mostly in bed, or half-watching Weirflix while they made out on the couch. Brienne’s bruises faded and her wrist healed – which Jaime insisted she have confirmed by a maester – and they took a day-trip to the Water Gardens. Jaime wouldn’t have enjoyed it even slightly, if Brienne hadn’t been so unabashedly enthusiastic about the rides and the mascots, insisting on him taking pictures of her with her arms wrapped around Drogon the Dragon with a smile on her face like a seven-year-old who’d been given a pony and hooting with delight as they plunged down all seventy-six loops of the water slide.

And that night he held her close and whispered _hold me like I’m Drogon _while Brienne laughed until the friction between them had her gasping and then moaning, her legs wrapped around him as he rocked against her until she was screaming _Jaime yes, Jaime please_ and shaking from head to foot as he followed her into blinding release.

Jaime generally didn’t like studio shooting – at least location shoots offered a variety of scenery – but going back to the same hotel suite every night where Brienne was waiting was definitely something he could get on board with and, thank the Seven, the air-conditioned sound-stage meant that the sweat trickling down all the actor’s faces was fake. A lot of his interior shots involved Jaime filling in a gap in the shot while Arthur, Arianne and Oswell advanced the plot, and Jaime hoped he was managing to thread the needle between conveying his character’s interest in the dialogue and not over-reacting to the point where he’d pull the audience’s focus off the leads. He had one good, meaty scene with Arianne Martell, where she offered her body in exchange for his help against Arthur Dayne’s law-man turned bad, only for Jaime to turn her down when he realised how the prospect revolted her. Arianne was … well, she was alright, and Jaime supposed that Doran would be able to put something together from all the takes, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever watch _Bedding and the City _in quite the same way again.

Then they shot the interior portion of the climactic gunfight and it was fucking wild. Jaime spent most of one day cowering on the floor beneath a window while fragments of sugar-glass rained down on him and Doran called for take after take. _What should I be doing differently? _he asked, only to be told _nothing, the glass isn’t falling the way it should. _So, alright, they reset everything after every take and make-up brushed the glass from his hair and clothes and they went again, and again, until Jaime started flinching reflexively the instant _before _Areo Hotah blew the glass apart, and Doran finally called a halt.

“I’m fucking it up,” he said to Brienne that night. “Crone’s cunt, it’s my best role, and I’m fucking it up.”

“It’s one bad day,” Brienne said, stroking his hair. “Besides, didn’t Doran say you weren’t doing anything wrong?”

“Until I started fucking it up,” Jaime said miserably.

“Do you want me to make you feel better, or do you want to sulk for a while yet?” Brienne asked. 

“I’m not sulking, I’m wallowing,” Jaime corrected, and Brienne laughed and kissed him and asked him if he wanted to watch the latest 003 movie, _The Knight Who Loved Me_, or the advance copy of _Pretty in Platemail_ that she had. He chose the former, managed to stay awake for the first fifteen minutes and then knew nothing until Brienne roused him to steer him to bed.

He woke before the shrilling alarm the next morning, for once, which allowed him to lie next to Brienne and watch her sleep as the room lightened slowly towards dawn. And, alright, he could understand how assorted assholes in her past had left her convinced she was ugly, she would have had crooked teeth and that square jaw even before her nose had been broken even once, but gods be good she was sweet to look on, even with her beautiful eyes closed in sleep. How had he ever thought her ugly?

He rolled over to silence the alarm before it could go off, and Brienne stirred. “Jaime?”

“Hush,” he whispered. “I have to go to work, but you should stay asleep.”

She smiled without opening her eyes. “I was having a lovely dream.”

“Was I in it?” Jaime asked.

“You’re in all my nice dreams.” Brienne opened her eyes. “We were on a boat.”

“Was I seasick?” Jaime asked.

Brienne’s smile grew. “The water was very calm.” 

“Good, I’m glad to know that your nice dreams don’t include me losing my breakfast over the rail.”

“I think it was Lys. We should go. There were big fish, the size of horses.”

“We’ll go,” Jaime promised her. He gave in to the temptation to kiss her, even though he really should be getting in the shower around now if he was going to make his makeup and wardrobe calls on time. “Brienne. We’ll go everywhere in the world and the places we like we’ll go back again and again.”

“Mmm,” she said dreamily, and Crone’s cunt, if it wasn’t for all the other times he loved to kiss Brienne, when she’d just woken up would have to be his favourite, when she was warm with sleep and sweet and soft, and fuck being on time when he could hold Brienne Tarth in his arms and trace her lips with his tongue and run his hand up and down her thigh until she was murmuring _Jaime, Jaime, please …_ she came so gently in the mornings, whispering her pleasure against his lips rather than crying it aloud, shivering in his arms as she clenched around his fingers and he came against her thigh.

He made his morning call, although only just.


	80. Brienne XXXII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do dragons eat, anyway?  
A little NSFW

Brienne missed the opportunity to train daily, but it wasn’t one she’d ever had before the _Oathkeeper _shoot anyway, and the hotel had a well-equipped gym that she took full advantage of. The rest of her days she spent exploring Lemonwood’s limited historical attractions, reading, and arguing with idiots on the _Theories of Ice and Fire_ weirnet site. Jaime had one day off a week, which they mostly spent wrapped around each other on couch except for lunch or dinner with his colleagues from the film. Oswell Whent was charming, Arthur Dayne was courtly until a few drinks unlocked his store of dirty jokes, and Arianne Martell was invariably accompanied by a member of her extended family – Oberyn, Quentyn, cousins like Manfrey Martell. One weekend she even brought Arys Oakheart to lunch and Brienne had to dig her nails into her palms to keep herself from asking him about _Sunspear Vice. _From Jaime’s amused glances at her, Brienne guessed he knew that, so, alright, she was a gauche fangirl, but it wasn’t as if she’d spent years hanging around with the stars of stage and screen like him, was it?

_Would you rather he was here?_ Jaime asked her that night, and he was teasing – but not really.

_I don’t want anyone but you_, she answered honestly, and he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face against her neck and ground against her until he came moaning her name.

A few weeks before the shoot ended, Willas Tyrell weirmailed through his first draft of a new _Oathkeeper_ script, and at Jaime’s request, Brienne spent several days reading through it and making comments. She wasn’t sure she was qualified to judge it on anything other than plausibility, but it did seem to her that it was more streamlined than what she’d seen of the original. Jettisoning the Lion subplot meant the first part of the script focused tightly on the conflict between the Young Wolf’s desperate need for every scrap of military aid and his suspicion and distrust of Goldenhand and his army. Brienne didn’t have many notes to give on that, Willas had a strong grasp on the right of pit and gallows and the intricacies of guest right. She did have quite a bit to say about the practicalities of several of the fight scenes, though, and could only type _I still don’t understand where the dragon came from_ when the creature appeared to terrorise the survivors holding out against the cold gods.

“Well, from … where dragons come from?” Jaime said when he read that.

Brienne sighed. “Jaime, dragons come from eggs, according to the sources,” she explained patiently. “They have to be hatched, and they have reasons for doing things. They’re not … you know, just wild animals that wander around and show up places.”

“Maybe it’s on the side of the cold gods,” Jaime said.

“Why would a fire-breathing dragon be on the side of the cold gods?” Brienne asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s on a gap year, seeing the world.”

“Jaime.” 

“Or … a dragon exchange program? Study abroad?”

“Jaime!”

He dropped down onto the couch and put his feet on the coffee table. “What does your bestiary say about them, then?”

“Fire, wings, flying, eyes as weak points,” Brienne said. “It’s pretty much focused on the smiting, _Natural and Unnatural Beasts and Creatures_.”

Jaime grinned at her. “If you’re going to talk about smiting things, wench, you need to come here so I can kiss you while you do it.”

Not at all averse to that agenda, Brienne joined him on the couch. “Pretty much everything on dragons and wyverns is based on _Barth’s Chronicle_.”

Jaime kissed her. “The one about Queen Aerea?”

“Mmm. Mostly, it’s about –” Brienne had to pause as Jaime kissed her again. “Jaime. Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Hmm. Can you put it in a weirmail tomorrow, and tell me more about the smiting now?”

Brienne smiled. “Yes.”

“Excellent.” Jaime’s hands slid beneath her T-shirt, and they didn’t talk about dragons, or much else, for quite a while.

“I could go to Oldtown and be back in a day or two,” Brienne said considerably later, her head pillowed on his chest. “They have a copy of _Barth’s Chronicle_ at the Citadel Library. I mean, probably inaccurate, it’s only a few centuries old and it’s based on a copy that was claimed to be found in Braavos that no-one’s ever actually seen, but still …”

Jaime ran his fingers through her hair. “Will it solve my dragon problem?”

“I don’t know, but it might help.” She kissed his shoulder. “I don’t want to, though. I want to stay here with you.”

Jaime chuckled a little. “Do you really want to stay here with me more than you want to take a day-trip to read the original text about dragons?”

“Maybe fifty-fifty,” Brienne confessed, and he laughed outright and kissed her again and told her to book a flight, _first class both ways, we’ll bill the production or claim it on taxes._

Baelish’s money meant Brienne didn’t need to worry about who to bill the flight to. _Tyrion didn’t tell him_, she thought, and alright, her lawyer _shouldn’t_, but it still gave her a warm feeling in her chest that Jaime’s brother was actually looking out for her interests separately from being _Jaime’s wife_. “I’m a bit rich now, myself,” she confessed. “Thanks to the civil suit against Mockingbird Publications. So, you know. I can just pay for the ticket.”

Jaime pressed a kiss to her hair. “Wench, how do you think the Lannister stay rich? Like everyone else, by paying for as little as possible. Get a receipt.”

Brienne spent the entire flight to Oldtown looking at that receipt, and thinking about what Jaime had said. _How do the rich stay rich?_

_The Stranger take that,_ she decided, crumpled the receipt and discarded it in a rubbish bin on her way out of the airport.

She had booked her own accommodation, and while it wasn’t what Jaime would have called _Brienne-Tarth-price-range_ it wasn’t the Starry Sept, either, just a nice mid-range hotel from the Fossoway chain just off Ragpicker’s Wynd, where the staff were polite but she had to carry her own suitcase. After dropping off her bag, Brienne took the bus to the Oldtown Citadel Library and put in a request to view Barth’s Chronicle – it being the Oldtown Citadel it took a day to process and could only be lodged in person, but then a few decades earlier Brienne would have been refused entry on the basis of her gender, so, alright, she’d wait a day.

_I’m thinking about you_, Jaime whispered over the phone that night, and Brienne wanted to say _Jaime, don’t_ and she wanted to say _Jaime, tell me_. She fell silent between the choices as Jaime told her how he wanted to slip his hand under her shirt and palm her breasts, as her own hand mimicked what he described, teasing her nipples and then stroking her thighs and between her legs and _Jaime, yes, Jaime –_

“You alright?” he asked after a moment.

“Mmm,” she managed. 

“Phone sex not that bad?”

Brienne smiled. “I’d rather have actual sex.”

“Me too,” Jaime said.

And, alright, so it wasn’t as embarrassing as she’d thought. Brienne seized her courage in both hands and said, “If I was there I’d use my mouth on you.”

“Really?” Jaime said a bit breathlessly.

“Absolutely,” Brienne said recklessly. “I’d lick your … cock. And suck. And –” _And Seven Hells, why wasn’t she better at this? _“Jaime, I’m sorry, I don’t – I can’t –”

“That’s alright, you’re alright,” Jaime said softly. “Would you hold me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Would you touch me?”

“Yes,” Brienne said. “Jaime, yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I want to hold you, and touch you, and kiss you.” It wasn’t enough, she knew, but it was all she could manage. “I love to run my fingers through your hair, you have such lovely hair –” And Jaime moaned a little over the phone at that, so, alright. “It feels so nice and it smells so good and I like the way you just lean into me when I stroke it. It’s like the way you relax when I touch your … your cock. Like you’re just letting me, just trusting me.”

“I am,” Jaime murmured. “Brienne, please.”

“And I can hold you close and make you feel good and you hold on to me –”

“Fuck _yes_,” Jaime gasped. “Brienne, fuck, yes, yes –” He groaned in the way Brienne knew by now meant he was climaxing, panting, “yes, yes, yes, please –”

“Jaime?” Brienne asked after a little while. “How are you?”

“Really good,” he said, a little slurred. “Wench, I miss you.”

“I’m here,” she said. “I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

“And thank you for not reminding me that it was my idea in the first place,” Jaime said. “Did you at least get a decent dinner?”

“Goat and onion,” Brienne said, forbearing to mention that it was a roll from a food-truck she’d passed on her walk back to the hotel.

“I hope you didn’t go to the Quill and Tankard.”

“I didn’t, actually. Why? I thought it was supposed to be good. Famously good.”

“I am absolutely going to get drunk on hard cider at the Quill and Tankard for the first time with you, and it seems fitting that’s the first time for you, as well.”

“I should at least get to be more experienced at _something_ that you,” Brienne said without thinking, and then froze. “Jaime. Sorry. I – sorry.”

“We’re back to that again?” Jaime said, but he didn’t sound angry, or even irritated. “Brienne.”

“Sorry,” she said again. “I just … I’m sorry.”

“So,” Jaime said conversationally, “according to Maester Luwin, feeling like you should be apologising when you haven’t done anything wrong is not a great sign of a healthy relationship. Can we talk about that?”

Brienne smiled despite herself. “Are you respecting my boundaries?”

“I’m trying to, how am I doing?”

“Really well.” Her vision was blurring and she had to wipe her eyes. “Jaime, I just feel like … if I was normal this wouldn’t even be a conversation, but it’s me, and I …”

“Wench. Wife. Can we just not talk about what’s _normal_? Before you, I had one intimate relationship in my life and that was with a woman I probably met for the first time in my _cradle_. So … if you want to throw terms like _normal_ around, it’s going to get really awkward, really fast. And not to discount what you feel, but … when did you start thinking you loved me?”

Brienne closed her eyes. “Sapphires,” she whispered into the phone. “Not just that you said it. You made it a joke. Even … how things were. You made a joke.”

“So … maybe we have different speeds on things? And that’s … alright?”

“Is that what Maester Luwin said?” Brienne asked. “Did you … did you talk to him about … about us not … bedding, properly?”

“Not like you think,” Jaime said quickly. “Just, I worried, that maybe you’d been hurt or something, that there was something I should be doing to help you.”

_So it’s that bad_. Brienne closed her eyes and pressed her lips together hard for a moment. _I’m so weird about this that Jaime thinks I’m traumatised by some kind of assault. _“No,” she managed to say. “It’s just that I’m a weird, freaky virgin.”

“Luwin didn’t use any of those particular words,” Jaime said. “He did say that most people don’t go from celibacy to bedding in one fell swoop, they just have that transition in their teen years, so – Brienne?”

Brienne took a deep breath and managed to stop the heaving sobs that were struggling to escape. “Yes?”

“Brienne, I feel like you might be upset about something. Is there anything you need me to do?”

And then the tears wouldn’t be halted and she would have ended the call except Jaime saying _hey, Brienne, hey, now, Brienne_ was all she wanted to hear and the only thing that eased the tight ache in her chest. _Sorry, sorry, _she sobbed, _sorry, sorry. _

“Hey, it’s alright, Brienne, it’s alright,” Jaime said. “I love you. You’re not weird, you’re not freaky, and you’re married to and talking on the phone right now to a man who flipped out so far about people’s judgement that he crafted a whole career out of deliberately proving them right, so, you know. I do get the thing about letting other people make you feel bad. But seriously, Brienne, fuck them all, and alright, I know it isn’t that simple and it isn’t easy, but please stop apologising to me for being upset as if you’re somehow doing wrong by being occasionally human instead of just heroing through life rescuing the rest of us. Alright?”

Brienne sniffled. “Yes.”

“Are you still crying?”

“Just a little bit.”

“Alright, good. So listen. I told you that I really don’t care how long it takes for you to want to do more than we already do, or even really if you ever, but if it’s upsetting you, maybe you should talk to someone? I mean, come with me to Maester Luwin some time. Or if that doesn’t feel right, I’m sure he can tell you someone else to see.”

Brienne nodded. “So I can … you know. Be ready.”

“So you can stop fucking worrying about it and stop feeling bad,” Jaime shot back. “Because honestly? I spent the better part of two decades feeling bad about myself and then you said _hey Jaime Lannister maybe you’re worth something_ and, Brienne … it turns out that thinking you’re maybe alright on a good day is a lot better than the opposite.”

“You’re worth a lot more than something,” Brienne protested.

“So are you,” Jaime said. “So are _you_, Brienne. Still crying?”

“No, I’ve stopped.”

“Alright.” Jaime sighed. “So am I getting the hang of this husband thing?”

Brienne smiled. “If you mean, knowing how to make me feel better? Yes. But that’s also a friend thing, and you had that down a while ago.”

“Good to know,” Jaime said. “Good to know I’m getting it right.”


	81. Brienne XXXIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne learns something new.

Brienne woke up with her phone still against her ear, although the battery was drained. She plugged it in and went to take a quick shower. Dry and dressed, she checked her messages.

05:31 Jaime L:_ I assume yr phone is dead but good morning_

05:48 Jaime L:_ fruit should not be part of breakfast ever change my mind_

05:56 Jaime L:_ wench I am imagining you showering and I won’t say more. _

05:58 Jaime L:_ But srsly I cd you all wet and warm from the shower is my 18th favourite Brienne. _

06:15 Jaime L: _or maybe 5th idk order changes all the time_

06:30 Jaime L: _what’s yr favourite me?_

Brienne smiled, typed _horny on main Jaime,_ and sent it before she could rethink it.

Her phone squawked while she was eating breakfast. _Good luck for you that’s all the Jaimes._

_Yes I know,_ Brienne shot back. _What are you filming today?_

_Dodging a horse being ridden up a staircase, thankfully not riding a horse up a staircase._

_Poor horse_, Brienne replied.

_Idk we started yesterday and the thing fucking charges up there like it’s a Water Gardens ride for it. also trick stairs. _

_I’ll have to have my phone off when I’m in the library but please let me know how you get on._

_Willdo wench,_ Jaime sent.

She had plenty of time before the Oldtown Citadel Library’s late-morning opening, so she walked to the Citadel instead of taking the bus. Overnight rain had made the cobblestoned alleys slippery, and Brienne was thankful for her cleat-soled boots. She paused on the old stone bridges to smell the sweet summer air, late-flowering peach trees and pomegranate bushes and flowers Brienne didn’t recognise in window-boxes and gardens perfuming the city thoroughly. 

At the Library, she had to surrender her phone, her bag, and turn out her pockets to prove she wasn’t trying to smuggle in a contraband biro before the young maester-in-training consented to lead her through to the _Rare Books_ reading room. The long hall they went down gave tantalising glimpses of the Library proper – towering shelves, several levels of them, crammed with books and papers. Part of Brienne started entertaining the fantasy of spending her Petyr Baelish windfall enrolling to study at the Citadel so she could get free access to the Library. _Jaime would love this_, she thought, craning her neck to try and see more through the doors they passed.

The reading room was glass-walled and airconditioned. A pad of paper and a pencil were set ready for Brienne, as were a pair of white cotton gloves. She tried to slip them on, and stopped. “Do you have a bigger size?”

“Maybe in men’s?” the young man said.

“Try that,” Brienne said as mildly as she could. _Who in their right mind needs to gender white cotton gloves?_ Well, it wasn’t the first time she’d ended up in the men’s section of a store trying to find a pair of jeans that didn’t end up somewhere around her shins or a shirt that actually fit across her shoulders instead of splitting a seam the first time she reached for something.

Once he’d found her gloves she could actually bend her fingers in once they were on, the maester-in-training brought out a heavy cardboard box and set it on the desk. “You may not remove the document from the box. You may take notes, but you may not bring the pencil within two feet of the document. You may not bend, fold, spindle or otherwise mutilate any pages of the document. Do you understand these requirements?”

“Yes, I do,” Brienne said, instead of _who the Seven Hells would _spindle_ the pages of the last remaining copy of _Barth’s Chronicle_? And what in the Maiden’s name is _spindle_, anyway? _

He stepped back, folding his hands behind his back, watching Brienne like a hawk in case, she supposed, that she suddenly lost her mind and started ripping out pages of the priceless manuscript. _Not that he could stop me if I did. _Brienne was reasonably sure she could break the skinny young man in half over her knee if she wanted to.

_Barth’s Chronicle_ – or this copy of it – had a lot about the possible origins of dragons, and a lot about their reproductive habits, but it took most of the day for Brienne to find anything useful. Pages after pages were either recopies of previous pages, information about dragon physiology that she already knew, or clear later inserts – an entire chapter was devoted to an expedition to Old Valyria, for the Seven’s sake, when no-one had even set foot in Valyria until hundreds of years after Barth had died.

She’d just checked her watch and resigned herself to missing her flight and spending another night in Oldtown – _without Jaime_ – when her eye lit on the sentence, _a dragon will not allow anyone else to mount it while its rider lives. _

Carefully, not giving in to her impatience, Brienne turned the following pages. _Natural and Unnatural Beasts and Creatures_ had a lot to say about dragons’ weak points and their inbuilt weapons, but it generally characterised them as extremely intelligent animals. Barth hinted at something … _more._ More, and yet _less_. Capable of forming an exclusive bond with a human rider, and yet able to revert to severe savagery the moment that bond was gone.

She went from the box with the text to her notepad and back again, scribbling notes, double-checking them. 

“Ms Tarth,” her escort said finally. “The Library is closing in fifteen minutes. I need to return the text to the archive.”

Brienne checked her watch and realised she had most definitely missed her flight. Fortunately she’d booked a second night at the Fossoway Inn simply to avoid dragging her suitcase around all day, but she could only imagine what her phone would look like when she got it back.

_57 missed messages, _was what it looked like once she’d handed back the white gloves and put her notes in her pocket and been led back out of the Library.

She didn’t stop to read them, just found _Jaime L_ in her contacts and dialled. “Jaime, I’m fine,” she said the second he answered. “Just delayed.”

“Wench,” Jaime said with relief. “That’s what I told myself. I didn’t call the Cloaks. Or anyone. I _wanted_ to, but I didn’t.”

Brienne smiled, aware she was probably looking like a loon standing on the steps of the Oldtown Citadel Library grinning like an idiot, and not really caring. “Thank you, Jaime. Thank you for wanting to call the Cloaks, and thank you for not.”

“Alright,” Jaime said softly. “Still, you know. Working this out.”

“Oh, Jaime.” Brienne sat down on the stairs, and put her hand over her stinging eyes. “You don’t need to – I mean you already …” She swallowed hard. “Seven Hells, Jaime, I’m going to start crying again and I’m in public and I can’t –”

“So today I saw Arthur Dayne accidentally pants himself,” Jaime said conversationally. 

_“What?” _

“He’s got this rig to yank him backwards for his final scene, and we were resetting between shots, and he was trying to be a gentleman and help get it fitted again,” Jaime said. “But somehow he got his clothes caught in the mechanism and when it took him flying backwards … well, let’s just say, if you’ve ever wondered what Arthur Dayne’s dick looks like, I can give a complete and accurate description.”

“No, don’t, I don’t want to know!”

“You sure?”

“_Jaime._” Brienne couldn’t keep from laughing. “Do not tell me about Arthur Dayne’s … that.”

“So I’m presuming since you’re not here, you missed your flight?”

“Yes, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get another this evening, but if not, I won’t be back until tomorrow. But, Jaime, Barth said people _rode_ on dragons.”

Jaime paused. “That can’t be right. I mean, Barth can’t be right, not that you’re not right. People would _know_, wouldn’t they? I mean, you can’t be the first person to read it, and there’s … at least two chronicles that mention it back in the age of ice and fire, so people would have known back then? Wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t know, but – hang on.” Brienne dug her notes out of her pocket. “_A dragon will not allow anyone else to mount it while its rider lives_, he wrote, and there’s another bit further on, one of the fragments about Aerea, that says she returned to King’s Landing _with Balerion_. Jaime, Balerion was supposed to be about the size of a house. Not one of the ones you could fit in a cat carrier. If he was _with_ her, he was … tame, somehow.”

“So … what, I should have an evil dragon-tamer who attacks us? I mean, attacks Goldenhand and the Blue Knight?”

“I don’t know, let me think about it – I took notes, you can read for yourself when I get back.” Her stomach growled. “And I missed lunch. Can I grab something to eat and call you back?”

“You can indeed absolutely not starve to death, wench,” Jaime said cheerfully. “There’s an excellent restaurant down by the harbor next to the old Sailor’s Sept building, it’s got Father or Mother or one of the Seven’s name in the title.”

“Yes, well, that will definitely enable me to find and identify it.” Brienne put her notes away again and got to her feet. “I’ll just get Merryweather’s and eat it at the hotel.”

“Now that _is_ not allowed,” Jaime said. “You’re not allowed to get Merryweather’s when I’m not there to steal your fries.”

“If I get onion rings instead?”

“Acceptable compromise,” Jaime said.

Brienne walked back to her hotel, picking up her take-away on the way, and called Jaime back as soon as she got to her room. She put him on speakerphone and took her meal out of the bag. “Guess what I’m doing?”

Jaime chuckled. “All my guesses would make you blush. What are you doing?”

“Eating fries.” Brienne crunched loudly right by the phone’s microphone.

“Mean wench,” Jaime said. “Dornish food is terrific but I’ve definitely had all the olives I need for this calendar year.”

“Nothing’s stopping you from finding the nearest Merryweather’s and buying your _own_ fries,” Brienne pointed out.

“I can’t buy my own fries, I can’t afford the calories.”

Brienne paused in the act of unwrapping her burger, and stared at the phone. “Jaime, they have the same nutritional content whoever pays for them.”

“They do not, fries stolen from someone else are calorie-neutral,” Jaime said, quite seriously.

“Jaime.”

“Like dessert.”

Brienne began to laugh. “This theory is not going to serve you well in the long term, you know.”

Jaime chuckled. “But in the short term, free fries.”

“I’m going to eat my burger now, so if, you know, don’t respond to something you say for a minute it’s because I have my mouth full and not because I’ve been struck dead.”

“I’ll refrain from calling three-three-seven,” Jaime said. “So, I wrap for the shoot next week. I need to go back to King’s Landing for a couple of days to have some meetings, but after we could go … anywhere you feel like, really.”

Brienne swallowed. “Tarth? For a few days, at least? I’d like to see Dad. And it’s pretty nice in the summer.”

“Tarth it is,” Jaime said. “Your dad has been asking me when we’ll visit, so I’ll tell him … a fortnight?”

“Sure,” Brienne said. “Wait. My dad has been asking _you_ when we’ll visit?”

“Just a couple of times, it’s not like he’s nagging or anything. It just … came up.”

“How often do you talk to him?” Brienne asked.

“Every few days. Why? Shouldn’t I?”

“No, no, it’s just … _I_ don’t talk to him that much.”

“Well, he doesn’t want you to feel that he’s being, you know. Over-protective,” Jaime said matter-of-factly. “He says you’ve always been very independent, and he doesn’t want you to feel that he doesn’t trust you to handle whatever life throws at you.”

“So he … calls you? To talk about me.”

“Or I call him. And not just about you. I’m going to do a liveraven from Tarth later in the year for him, about infrastructure funding, so it’s about that, and I’m buying a house, or if I can’t get a house some land I can build a house on, in Evenfall –”

“Buying a house?”

“Yes, wench, remember, we talked about it. In Sunspear. Right before you said you were in love with me and that bartender talked me into kissing you.”

“Jaime.” Brienne put her burger down. “_Mentioning_ something in passing and _talking_ about it are not the same thing.”

“So I shouldn’t buy a house?” Jaime sounded nervous.

_Oh, Jaime._ “You should buy whatever house you want,” Brienne said. “Wherever you want. You don’t need my permission, and I won’t be upset about it. Just … I don’t have a glass candle, alright? I need you to tell me things if you want me to know them.” 

“Alright,” Jaime said. “I can do that. I’m buying a house in Evenfall, Brienne. Or some land to build one on. Your dad is helping me out.”

“That’s great, Jaime,” Brienne said. “Have you had any luck?”

“It turns out that there’s not a huge turnover in property in Evenfall,” Jaime said, a bit ruefully.

Brienne chuckled. “Yes, well, when you only have fifteen houses, that will happen. Does it have to be Evenfall? You might have more luck in Morne.”

“Mmm. Would you prefer Morne?”

“Me? Not really. But there’s other places. And as you said, it’s not like there’s anywhere on Tarth that’s a long drive from anywhere else.”

“That’s true,” Jaime said. “I could find a place in Aemon’s Falls and your dad could visit us and Alyssane at the same time.”

“No,” Brienne said instantly. “I’m very happy for Dad that he’s found someone who makes him happy, but no.”

Jaime laughed. “Alright, wench. Not Aemon’s Falls.”


	82. Jaime XXXIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Production wraps on "Once Upon A Time In Dorne"

_Three, two, one_ … Jaime turned, raised his gun. _And one, two, three_ –

He didn’t need to act the expression of absolute fear as the stunt horse charged towards him down the sound-stage corridor. _Four, five –break right_ – He dived through the doorway on his right, landing on the thick foam pad just out of camera shot for the fifth time that day. He couldn’t see, but he could hear, the horse leaping through the window at the end of the corridor, sugar glass shattering and showering onto the floor.

“Cut,” Doran Martell called. “And print. That’s a production wrap, ladies and gentlemen.”

And just like that, _Once Upon A Time In Dorne_ was out of the hands of the actors and the cameramen and the grips and the gaffers and the stunt-co-ordinator and into the world of post-production and editing. It was an unpleasant hollow feeling, knowing the character he’d been sweating over inhabiting properly was now in the hands of complete strangers, that some of the best work he’d done in his life was at the mercy of someone else’s decision. He wanted to find them and explain exactly what they should do and why, but that would be unprofessional – and besides, it would make no difference.

Jaime went back to his hotel, texted Brienne to tell her to wake him up when she got in, and fell face down onto the bed, and into sleep an instant later.

When he woke, it was dark outside the window. Brienne was pressed against his back, her arm around his waist, and when he moved she stirred. “Jaime?”

He covered her hand with his. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I thought you needed the sleep,” Brienne said. She raised herself up on her elbow and leaned over to kiss his cheek.

“You might have been right,” Jaime admitted. “Brienne.”

Her arm tightened around him. “What is it?”

“I always hate this part. The end. Usually it’s just _my_ end. This time … it shouldn’t be, but it’s worse.” He rolled over a little so he could see her face, feeling a tightness in his chest and temples. “It’s stupid, I know. I feel …”

She kissed his cheek again, and then his mouth. “Endings are always difficult, if it’s the ending of anything good. It’s not stupid. It’s just human.”

“Can you just …” Jaime stopped. _What?_ What did he want to ask her to do? _Something_, he knew instinctively, _something_. “Brienne.” 

“I’m here,” she said, and wrapped her arms around him and held him close, and _yes, that’s it_. His heartrate began to slow again, the pressure in his head to recede. If he had another fucking panic attack, Brienne would take care of him, and if he started crying Brienne would comfort him, and paradoxically, knowing that made Jaime quite sure he wouldn’t do either. “What do you need?”

“This is good,” Jaime murmured. “Brienne. This is good.”

“Alright,” Brienne said softly.

He fell asleep again, or almost asleep, dipping down into brief dreams he couldn’t remember past the instant of having them except that they were about warmth, and safety, and Brienne was there, always there, sleeping or waking, running her fingers through his hair and holding him close with her strong, gentle arms. When he floated back up to full awareness, the hollowness was gone, the tension that had been skittering along his nerves was quiet. “Brienne.”

“What do you need?” she asked again.

His stomach growled. “Food, I think.”

Brienne kissed him, her lips curving into a smile against his. “I’ll order room service. You pick something on Weirnet or RookTube. Anything you want.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Anything?”

“Anything,” Brienne said. “I can’t promise to stay awake for it, but anything you want.”

Jaime sprawled on the couch and clicked through the options, eventually settling on _Mad Mors: Demon Road. _

Brienne joined him. “Half-an-hour, they said.”

“What did you order?”

“Salad for you,” Brienne said. “Burger for me.”

Jaime snorted. “Heartless wench.”

“Oh, and I also got three sides of fries. For me. And a second burger. In case I turn out to be extra hungry.” She gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence. “I hope I’ll be able to eat it all. I’d hate for you to have to help me.”

Jaime laughed, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his lap, kissing her soundly. “Have I mentioned today that I love you?”

“No, and it’s getting late,” Brienne said, smiling.

He kissed her again. “I love you. And not just for your fries.”

They ate – the salad left ignored to wilt on the table – and watched Victaria Tyrell and Alysanne Bulwer join forces with Garlan Tyrell to bring down the tyrannical regime of Jonos Bracken. Asha Greyjoy had a small part, Jaime noted, and the ferocity he’d seen on the stage translated perfectly well onto the screen, so, alright, she had a serious career ahead of her if she got a good agent and the right parts. For once, Brienne stayed awake until the end, clutching Jaime’s arm when Victaria and Garlan were clambering over a wildly-slewing truck to take on Jonas Bracken’s henchmen and sniffling a little at the final sequence as Victaria was hailed as a hero and Garlan turned to vanish into the crowd.

Jaime rubbed her back, and ate the last cold fry. “Why did you like it?”

Brienne sniffed. “I just did.”

“No, wench, serious question. No swords, no knights. Usually that would bore you to tears.”

“Usually the woman is the girlfriend, not the hero,” Brienne shot back.

“But you like _Volantis_. Barristan Selmy is the hero, and Elia is the girlfriend.”

“_Volantis_ is about _both_ of them,” Brienne said. “Take Elia Martell’s character out, and there’s no story. Like _When Duncan Met Rohanne. _It’s not, _The Adventures of Duncan_ in which his girlfriend Rohanne cheers from the sideline.”

“It’s a different genre.”

“I know that,” Brienne said a little sharply. “I’m just saying, I prefer movies in which there’s a female character whose absence would actually change the plot, that’s all. Like those _Griff_ movies you like. There’s a different woman in each of them and all she does is look admiring and get rescued. You could substitute a _dog_ in and it would be more or less the same plot.”

“Now, that’s not fair,” Jaime said. “In _The Griff Identity_, he would never have gotten away without the help of …” He sought for the name of the character, or the actress. “The woman who helped him.”

“Fine,” Brienne said. “You could substitute a _service_ dog in, then.”

“You’re being unreasonable harsh about an entire genre of films, wench.”

“I’m not suggesting they should be banned, Jaime,” Brienne said. “I’m just saying I have better things to do with my time.”

“But you watch stuff like _The Magnificent Seven_ and _The Three Whitecloaks_ all the time,” Jaime pointed out. “I’m pretty sure that there aren’t ten lines of dialogue for women in the two of them combined.”

“Which I put up with, because I’m interested in the swordfights.” Brienne stacked the dinner plates from the coffee table, added the uneaten salad, and set them outside the door.

“Mmm.” Jaime took out his phone and tapped the 3ER icon. _Box office for mad mors, _he typed, and raised his eyebrows at what he read. He opened the text app, found _Pegleg _in his contacts, and sent _make sure Rose and Blue Knight have plenty of speaking lines_. _Also that they are not just girlfriends._

Almost immediately, his phone squawked. _You want the Blue Knight to kill a dragon how is that ‘just girlfriend’?_

_Just make sure_, Jaime sent back, and turned his phone off. “So, there’s a wrap party tomorrow,” he said. “Which I sort of have to be at, and I’d like you to be at, if you don’t mind. And then we can go back to King’s Landing, and then Tarth?”

“All of that sounds good,” Brienne said. She sat back down beside him. “Do you want to go to bed, or watch something else, or …?”

Jaime smiled at her. “I want to read your notes about dragons, wench.”

Brienne smiled, and took a square of folded papers from her pocket. “I hope you can read my handwriting.”

Her handwriting was neat and regular, far clearer than Jaime’s own had been even when he could hold a pen properly. _A dragon will not allow anyone else to mount it while its rider lives_, in even lettering, underlined.

He read through the rest. “This is going to set the cat among the pigeons, wench.”

Brienne tucked her feet up and hugged her knees. “It’s not a reliable source. There wasn’t supposed to be any copy of Barth’s _Chronicle_ outside Westeros, and then this turns up only a few hundred years ago?” 

Jaime grinned at her. “Not the point. The point is, this is an actual historical document that is in the Citadel Library. I can stick a rider on my dragon with a clear conscience and when anyone kicks off about it, I just point to Barth’s _Chronicle_. And then it’s a matter of academic debate and opinion.”

“But who would ride the dragon?” Brienne asked. “I mean, you have it attacking Goldenhand in the script. An enemy?”

“No, no,” Jaime said. He could see it clearly now. “An ally. The last Dragon Queen. Riding the last dragon. But she falls in battle –”

“And the dragon goes mad.” Brienne sat up straighter, eyes bright. “How does she die?”

“Saving the Young Wolf,” Jaime decided. “Winterfell falls, and everyone flees. The Young Wolf is last –”

“Protecting his people,” Brienne put in.

Jaime nodded. “A hero, a leader. But he’s cut off, so the Dragon Queen goes in to save him, and she does –”

“But she dies,” Brienne said. “And the dragon, without a rider, just lashes out –”

“At the last survivors, and the Blue Knight has to kill it –”

“And then there’s no hope left, but the Young Wolf finds out that he can – how does he find it out?” Brienne paused. “I mean, in the script he goes to the Cold Golds, but how did he know it would work?”

Jaime let his head fall back against the couch. “Ah. Um.”

“A prophecy,” Brienne said.

“No, because –”

“Not a clear one. Like, maybe everyone thinks the Dragon Queen is the one it applies to. No-one is quite sure. But then, when she dies –”

“Then the Young Wolf realises it’s him,” Jaime said, nodding. “Or _might_ be him.”

“Goldenhand tells him. Or Rose. Would it be more moving if it was Rose?”

“Because she’s a scholar of some sort. Not a maester, women weren’t allowed –”

“She studied in disguise,” Brienne said. “Passing as a man.”

“I’ll have to recast, then, no-one would believe Margaery Tyrell could pass herself off as male, not past puberty.” He frowned in thought. “Sarella Sand, maybe.”

“Will Olenna let you recast, though?”

“Willas could write another role for Margaery. As a Mormont, maybe. Ferocious warrior – no, if there’s a Mormont in the movie, I want Asha Greyjoy for that role.”

“What if Sarella plays the Young Wolf’s sister, not his wife?” Brienne suggested.

“Perfect,” Jaime said. He could see the scene in front of him, well, without the dialogue that Willas would have to provide. _Sarella standing, Robb seated, Margaery at his side … they’ll have to get the lighting right, it should be dark, not too dark though …_ He turned his phone back on, found the conversation with Willas, and began to type. _Need two new characters. Last Dragon Queen, rides her dragon to fight the cold gods and dies rescuing the Young Wolf when they are fleeing Winterfell. Also sister to Young Wolf who studied as a maester and is the one to tell him he is the Night’s King. And if you can get a Mormont She-Bear in too would be gr8._

A reply came almost immediately. _You do realise that’s going to screw the first act irredeemably? _

_Why?_

_Introducing that many characters will bloat it. _

_I have faith in you,_ Jaime sent back. _When can I have a draft?_

_I’m now charging you double, and yes, you can afford it,_ Willas shot back.

Jaime grinned, and looked up to see Brienne watching him curiously. “Wench. You really should think about going into screen-writing.”


	83. Brienne XXXIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wrap party, and afterwards. NSFW.

The wrap party was at the Lemonwood studio, in and around the largest interior set that had been used for the movie – an old-fashioned saloon, complete with catering staff in period costume. Brienne wore the same blue blouse Shae had helped her buy for _The_ _Hawk and The Dove_ premiere, and it still exposed an uncomfortably large amount of her freckled décolletage. _Or what would be my décolletage if I had any to speak of. _

She tugged it higher as unobtrusively as she could, at least glad she wasn’t one of the waitresses, in their dressed with frothy skirts and plunging necklines. _I’d look like a sow in silk, dressed like that._ She could almost hear Septa Roelle’s voice saying those exact words, long ago. _Selwyn, I know you’re doing your best by the girl, but you’re not doing her any favours by dressing her up like a sow in silk. _

That had been the last time Brienne had worn a skirt. 

Jaime’s arm slipped around her waist and he leaned up to press a kiss to her cheek. “Stag for your thoughts.”

Brienne made herself smile. “Nothing. Just being glad I don’t have to dress up in costume.”

He glanced over at the nearest waitress. “Mmm, can’t be comfortable. I hope they’re not being made to wear corsets, that’s a workplace claim waiting to happen for Doran. Arthur was asking where you were, come and say hello to him.”

So Brienne let Jaime lead her back into the crowd, and talked about swords and armour with Arthur Dayne, and to Oswell Whent about fishing, and – surprisingly – to Arianne Martell about Renly Baratheon’s chance of securing a majority in the final round of voting in the Great Council. 

The third time Brienne tried to unobtrusively tug her blouse a little higher, Arianne put her hand on Brienne’s arm. “You’re not showing your bra at all,” she murmured. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Brienne felt her cheeks heat and knew she was turning blotchy red. “No, I – I’m just not used to – I usually wear things higher at the neck.”

Arianne’s forehead wrinkled. “Why? That would be a very unflattering cut for your figure.”

_Because I buy most of my clothes in the men’s section_, was the answer. “I’m just more comfortable.”

“Next time you are in Sunspear, we’ll go shopping,” Arianne declared firmly. “You need … hmm, a peplum jacket, at least one empire-line top, a coat with Lorathi sleeves for winter … who cuts your hair?”

“I do,” Brienne said uncomfortably. “When it gets too long. And I don’t need … I mean, I probably need one other good top for things like this, I suppose.”

“When you’re in Sunspear, or I’m in King’s Landing, we’ll shop,” Arianne said. “You’re so lucky to be so tall, there are so many things you can wear that I can’t. Do you wear flats because of Jaime? Because you should tell him to fuck himself if that’s the case.”

“No,” Brienne said. “I’ve never worn heels. Jaime … I don’t think he’d mind.”

“He’d better not,” Arianne said. “You’d be a fucking goddess with another six inches.” She rose up on her tiptoes and tugged Brienne’s arm until she stooped, and then kissed her cheek. “I’ll get you the name of my hairdresser,” she whispered, and was gone.

“Hey.” Jaime slipped his arm around Brienne’s waist and pulled her close. “I don’t suppose you got any spoilers about next year’s _Bedding and the City_ from Arianne?”

Brienne smiled. “No. She just wanted to talk about clothes.”

He kissed her neck and then leaned up to kiss her cheek. “That’s disappointing. What about clothes?”

“Something about a perflum jacket.”

“Peplum,” Jaime said. “It would suit you. Of course, I prefer you wearing nothing at all.”

“Jaime …”

“Naked in my bed Brienne is my favourite Brienne of all.”

“Jaime!” Brienne pulled back a little. “You can’t say such things in public.” 

“We’re not in public, we’re at a wrap party.” Jaime captured her lips with his own. 

“Jaime …” Brienne whispered, but his mouth moving against hers felt so good she couldn’t pull away. His tongue slipped past her lips to stoke hers and her knees weakened. She was sure that people were staring at beautiful Jaime Lannister kissing big butch Brienne but his arms around her and his hand rubbing the small of her back and his knee slipping between hers made her head spin and all she could do was lean into him.

“Let’s go,” Jaime whispered after a moment.

“Don’t you need to –”

Jaime grinned. “I need to get your clothes off. Probably better that we be in private for that.”

There were cars waiting outside the studio doors, and Jaime bundled Brienne into the nearest, and then climbed in after her before she had a chance to close the door or get her seatbelt on. _Jaime_, she said, and he told the driver to take them to the hotel _slowly and carefully_, closed the privacy partition and pressed her back onto the seat, kissing her hungrily as he slid his hand under her top and up to cup her breast. Her protest turned into a moan as Jaime’s thumb slid over her nipple and his thigh pressed between hers to push against the sweet place between her legs and _oh, Jaime, Jaime_ it felt so good, warmth rising inside her with every thrust of his hips as he panted her name against her lips _Brienne, yes, fuck, Brienne _and then it didn’t matter where they were, only that she was nearly there, nearly – nearly –

“Jaime!” she screamed against his mouth as pleasure blasted through her like a lighting strike, shaking and thrashing against his strong weight holding her against the seat of the car.

“Alright, there you are, there you go,” Jaime whispered in her ear as the aftershocks of her climax began to subside. “That’s it, there you go, that’s it.”

“Oh, Jaime,” she mumbled, pressing her face into his neck and just letting go of everything except how good she felt. The limo stopped, and Jaime pulled her up and out of the car, and then they were in the elevator and Jaime had her pressed up against the wall, kissing her lips and her cheek and her neck and running his hands over her thighs, gasping _I need, Brienne, I need –_ they were in the hallway, stumbling to the door of their suite, and then inside, and Jaime was tearing at her clothes and she was tearing at his, stumbling on their way to the bed until they fell onto it together, needing to be close, to be _closer_ –

Brienne reached down between them and closed her hand around him and Jaime groaned and buried his face against her neck and then shuddered and jerked against her as he spent, hot and sticky, against her side.

She wrapped her arms around him, expecting him to ease into sleep, but instead he raised up a little, kissed her, kissed her chest, her breasts until she was dizzy with the pleasure of it, and then worked his way downward until he was licking that place that made her vision blur, his fingers stroking inside her and she was rising up again, higher, so fast so high, and then she was screaming again, heels drumming on the mattress as Jaime held her hips down and licked and sucked and stroked until she couldn’t stand it except it was so good she couldn’t bear it to stop and _oh Jaime please Jaime _and she was flying higher than ever and Jaime was on top of her, his cock hard against her, moaning _so good Brienne so good_ and everything was tightening inside her and Jaime was panting and gasping and _oh yes oh yes oh yes_ and she was not quite there, nearly there, almost there –

“Yes Jaime yes, _yes_,” she said, and blinding ecstasy crashed over her again as Jaime thrust hard against her and came between them. “Jaime, Jaime.” She wrapped her arms and legs around him and held him tightly. “Jaime.”

“So good,” Jaime mumbled against her neck. “So good, Brienne. So good.” He worked his arms around her and pulled her closer. Brienne let herself just float in how good that felt. Being held was part of it, but so was holding him – it was all together, it was all about being together –

“I love you, I love you,” Brienne whispered without thinking about it. “Jaime. I love you.”

Jaime kissed her throat, his beard soft and scratchy against her skin. “It’s pretty great, isn’t it? The whole love thing?”

“It’s wonderful. Jaime, Jaime, it’s wonderful.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “I never imagined anyone would ever … I never knew how wonderful it would be.”

“Mmm.” He kissed her neck again. “Brienne. Whose judgement do you trust more, me or Mullendork and Kyle Cunt?” 

“Yours, of course,” she said immediately. “Why?”

“Because I think you’re gorgeous and amazing. I think I’m the luckiest man in Westeros that you somehow managed to fall in love with me despite me being, well, _me_. And as I’ve repeatedly proved, I’m pretty much unable to keep my hands off you. I really hate it that you let those assholes make you feel bad about yourself.”

Brienne smiled. “You’re a touch biased, though, Jaime. And it’s not … I mean, I know what I look like. I’ve always known what I look like, and plenty of people have been willing to tell me, over the years. When you look like me, romance isn’t really a reasonable expectation.”

Jaime raised his head. “Are you seriously telling me that not one man or woman has ever tried to hit on you? Ask you out?”

“Only as a joke.” _Why else would anyone ask Big Brienne out, except as a practical joke? _Jaime was, miraculously, attracted to her despite her looks, but he would never have looked at her twice if they’d met under different circumstances. She smiled at him, and ran her fingers through his hair again. “I know you don’t mind how I look, but you’re different to most people.”

He frowned a little. “Wench, I don’t get hard just thinking about you _despite_ the fact that you’re tall and strong and don’t look like everybody else. It’s got nothing to do with _not minding_. Do you think I, I don’t know, close my eyes and think about Arianne Martell or someone?”

“No, of course not,” Brienne said quickly.

“Good.” Jaime put his head back down on her shoulder. “Honestly, wench, I would _absolutely_ punch anyone who talked about you the way you talk about yourself sometimes. And you’d never say things like that about someone else. You should at least be as kind to yourself as you are to other people, Luwin says, although given I’m a cynical reprobate with a decidedly jaundiced view of human nature it isn’t really great advice for me.”

Brienne smiled. “I don’t think you’re as cynical as you like to make out.”

Jaime chuckled. “You’re to blame for that, wench. It’s hard to have a bad opinion of humanity with someone like you in front of me.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Also, and I realise I should have talked to you about this first, but I might have bought a horse tonight.”

Brienne blinked. “A horse?”

“Sugar. My horse from the film.”

“Jaime, where are you going to keep a horse? You live on the eleventh floor!”

“I’ll have her stabled. But I want her for _Oathkeeper_.”

“That makes a little more sense,” Brienne allowed.

Jaime began to laugh. “Did you think I was going to put her one of the spare bedrooms?”

“I have honestly learned not to rule out any ridiculousness from you.”

“Well, good, because I might have done something else the other day that I probably should have talked to you about first.”

“You bought two horses?”

“I maybe booked our honeymoon?”

“We haven’t even decided on a date for the cloaking,” Brienne pointed out.

“No, but the end of summer is the best time, isn’t it? Weather-wise, on Tarth? That’s what your Dad said.”

“Yes, it is.”

“So I booked for then.”

“And where? Where did you decide we were going?”

He raised his head and smiled at her. “I know I should have asked, but … I didn’t think you’d mind. We’re booked for two weeks in a hotel.”

“_Which_ hotel, Jaime?” Brienne asked as patiently as she could.

His smile grew. “The one in Volantis they used for the set of Barristan Selmy’s nightclub. The suite they used for his apartment. I plan to wear a trench-coat and a fedora at all times, whatever the weather. And to tell the hotel pianist that if he played it for you he can play it for me.” He leaned up and kissed her. “But you are absolutely not allowed to put me on a boat alone at the end of the fortnight.”

“I can agree to that,” Brienne said. “But can I make a suggestion?”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “The fedora is non-negotiable. The trench-coat, I can be persuaded on.”

“We should go to Pentos first,” Brienne said. “Kiss on the top of the Sunrise Gate.”

“Eat at _Illyrio’s_.” Jaime kissed her again. “Stay at the Red Temple Hotel. Drink amber wine and buy things we don’t need at the bazaars.”

“All of that,” Brienne agreed. “Would that be alright?”

He smiled at her, beautiful as sunlight. “It will be perfect, wench. Perfect.”


	84. Ravens VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravens on Jaime's phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but there'll be a longer one ahead of schedule to make up for it.

08:31 Goodfather: _There’s a plot of land at Dreamfyre Point, zoned permitted for residential, that might be for sale._

08:32 Me: _Dreamfire? That’s where theres a view toward Pentos right?_

08:38 Goodfather: _Yes. There’s no services laid in, though. It’s isolated._

08:39 Me: _Electricity and running water r sort of non-negotiatble _

08:45 Goodfather: _I wouldn’t suggest otherwise, but there would be an expense._

08:46 Me: _I can always whore myself in Essos_

08:47 Goodfather: _Son, I am going to run with the assumption that means something other than it sounds._

08:48 Me: _Ads. Good money in ads in Essos. But they r usually terrible and embarrassing. Can you find out cost and let me know I will ask Brienne._

09:05 Goodfather: _Yes, I will do that. _

09:13 Me: _Can I ask you something about brienne? _

09:40 Goodfather: _You can ask._

09:42 Me: _ok well, don’t b mad but you remember I said Brienne had stupid ideas about herself sometimes? Like about us being friends?_

10:14 Goodfather: _I remember. _

10:16 Me: _She’s relly down on herself sumtimes. Did something happen? Tht I cd fix?_

10:30 Goodfather: _Son, a lot of things happened, and you can’t fix people._

10:32 Me: _I dunno brienne fixed me_

10:41 Goodfather: _From what she’s said, I think you fixed yourself. _

10:43 Me: _What do you mean a lot of things happened? Like what?_

10:55 Goodfather: _You should have that conversation with Brienne._

10:56 Me: _Brienne acts like it’s nbd and it’s not nbd._

10:57 Goodfather: _NBD?_

10:58 Me: _No big deal. It upsets her. it’s fine when were alone but oyhertimes she’s all uncomfortable and nervous and tries to make herself small. _

10:59 Me: _I want her to b happy I hate that she feels bad_

10:59 Me: _it’s awful_

11:00 Me: _Ur her dad. tell me wat 2 do _

11:15 Goodfather: _Son if I knew what to do I would have done it years ago. Brienne had a hard time at school. She was always tall, always strong, never pretty. If she’d had a mother, maybe it would have been different. I told her she was beautiful to me, but I don’t think it changed much._

11:17 Me: _ok ur her dad so I’ll give u a pass on some of that but if u ever say brienne isn’t pretty to me again we’ll have words_

11:17 Me: _I mean ok she’s gorgoes not pretty that’s fair I guess_

11:18 Me: _I tell her all the time but it’s like it just rolls off_

11:32 Goodfather: _Son, you can’t undo a lifetime’s insults with a few compliments. The Seven know I tried._

11:35 Me: _Do you have their names? I promised brienne no punching but could always sic Varys on them. _

11:40 Goodfather: _Septa Roelle _

11:41 Me: _Done deal._

11:42 Me: _So wat shd I do?_

11:48 Goodfather: _Son, Brienne is happier than I’ve ever known her to be since she was little. Whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it right. _

11:49 Me: _were going to Pentos and volantis for our honeymoon after the cloaking. I thout in 2 weeks mayb? _

12:15 Goodfather: _About that … _


	85. Brienne XXXV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has several unwelcome surprises.

The first thing that Brienne found out, when they got back to King’s Landing, was that she now had an assistant.

At first, she assumed the slender young woman standing next to Peck at the airport was his girlfriend, and extended her hand with a friendly smile. “Hello. I’m Brienne.”

“Pia,” the girl squeaked, shaking Brienne’s hand gingerly. “Miss Tarth. I have your messages here.” She offered a piece of paper. “Nothing urgent but you should get back to the writer from _Golden Rose _before the end of business if you want to be featured in the story.”

Brienne stared at her. “_Golden Rose_? Story?”

Jaime put his arm around her waist. “Pia is your assistant, Brienne. She’s your Peck.”

“I don’t need an assistant!”

“Well, you sort of do,” Jaime said. “Peck’s been fielding just about everything, and batting it all back so you wouldn’t, I guess, realise what being married to me brings with it and come to your senses, but you need someone to deal with your social media and filter the journalists and basically Peck you.”

“So you went ahead and hired someone,” Brienne said evenly. “Rather than, perhaps, raising the topic with me.”

Jaime leaned closer. “She really needed the job right away, there wasn’t time.”

“Oh.” Brienne eyed Pia, who was giving her an eager, slightly desperate smile. “And I can afford an assistant?”

“_We_ can,” Jaime said. “I mean, you only need one because you’re married to me, so it’s only right I cover the cost.”

_Seven Hells, he’s moved on from giving me a car to giving me people._ _What’s next? A boat? A plane? A small country? _ “Congratulations on becoming a verb,” Brienne said to Peck. “Pia, can you just … hold everything for me until we have the chance to sit down and talk?”

Pia nodded energetically. “I can do that, yes, I can do that.”

“Alright, great,” Brienne said, and followed Peck out of the airport and to the car. She got in the back with Jaime, Peck got behind the wheel and Pia got in the front passenger seat. _Mother’s mercy, where is this going to end? With us travelling in convoy with all our staff? _She sighed. _So, alright, my life now includes an assistant. _She leaned forward. “Pia, I’ve never had an assistant. What do you do, exactly? I mean, I know Peck makes bookings for Jaime, and that sort of thing.”

Pia turned to look back at Brienne, nodding. “But also, I have your public phone –”

“My public phone?”

“The one for people who don’t know you,” Pia explained. “Journalists, mostly, and agents and other industry people. So you don’t get bothered with calls and texts, but people can still reach you if they need to. Also, if there’s a number out there people don’t try as hard to find your real one. And I monitor Ravengram and RookTube in case there’s something you need to know about or respond to, and the media and weirnet generally. When you get a Ravengram account, I’ll run that for you. And I can run errands, do shopping, that sort of thing as well.”

“Do I have any messages that aren’t from the press?” 

“Yes.” Pia produced the piece of paper again. “Arianne Martell called to tell you _Meraxes_ near Cobblers’ Square – I looked it up, it’s a hairdresser.”

Brienne touched her hair uncertainly. She’d actually thought it was looking better, before Arianne’s comment at the wrap party. Jaime had been right that paying more for shampoo and conditioner made a difference, and her hair had been getting softer and shinier since she’d started using his. “Do you think I need a haircut?” she asked Jaime.

Jaime shrugged. “If you want. I like it long, but I’m sure I’d like it short, too.”

“Arianne thought I did.”

Jaime chuckled. “Arianne spends close to the GDP of the Iron Islands on her hair, wench, mostly because at least half of it is extensions. She thinks you need to visit the hairdresser if you haven’t been since yesterday.” He raked his fingers through his own hair. “Go if you want, I generally don’t bother between shoots unless it’s getting out-of-control.”

_A high-fashion haircut on a face like mine_.

_A sow in silk._

She swallowed. “I’ll think about it. Anything else, Pia?”

“Two sponsorship offers. _Black Pearl_, that’s a women’s athletics-wear company based in Braavos, and Dawnstar Gyms.”

“Sponsorship? What does that mean?”

Jaime took her hand. “They give you money, you use their product or wear their clothes, maybe there’s an advertising campaign.”

Brienne stared at him. “Advertising? I can’t do advertising! Who would buy something because _I_ advertised it?”

“Probably at least some of the hundred thousand people who signed the _Brienne Blue Knight_ petition,” Pia said. “But I can get more details from them if you’d like?”

Peck drew the car into the parking lot at Jaime’s building.

“Yes, thank you,” Brienne said numbly.

Jaime squeezed her fingers. “You don’t have to. We don’t need the money.”

“Is there anything else, Pia?”

“Someone called Gendry Waters rang to ask if you’d given any more thought to his offer, I’m not sure what that’s about. Alerie Hightower wants to dress you for the Iron Throne Awards. You have four invitations – two gallery shows, an opening night for Asha Greyjoy’s new play, and Barbrey Dustin’s King’s Landing concert. I’ve checked your calendar –”

“I have a _calendar_?”

“Well, I made one for you, and cross-referenced with Peck,” Pia said. “You’ll be in Tarth by the time of the concert, but the galleries and the play are doable, if you want.”

What Brienne _wanted_ was to go upstairs, curl up on the couch with Jaime and not think about any of it.

“We’ll get back to you on those, Pia,” Jaime said easily. “We’ll be having a quiet day at home today, so hold everything, the both of you.”

“Will do, Mr Jaime,” Peck said.

Brienne got out of the car and collected their bags from the boot. Jaime joined her, and tried to take his suitcase from her. “No, I can –” _Let me. This is something I can do._

“Alright, thanks,” Jaime said, and pressed the button for the elevator. He stood close to her as the elevator whisked them upwards, and the moment they were inside his apartment, he took the suitcases from her, set them down, and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he whispered. “I know it’s a lot, and I’m sorry, but that’s why you have Pia now. To manage it, so you don’t have to.”

“I can’t do advertising,” Brienne mumbled.

“Then you don’t have to.”

“I can’t be dressed for the Iron Throne Awards.”

“Then you don’t have to do that either. You can say no to everything, Brienne, it’s my job to go to things, not yours.” He leaned up to kiss her cheek. “I’m sorry I just hired Pia but Tyrion called, she’s Podrick’s sister, he asked Tyrion to take her on because she had to get out of her other job, like, _really_, and, you know. Then she had no way to make rent.”

“No, that’s alright,” Brienne said. “Of course it’s alright, if she needed help. What happened? Is she alright?”

“She was working for some asshole guy,” Jaime said. “I think she’s alright, but she wouldn’t have been if she’d stayed any longer. From what Tyrion said, he’s bad news. _Really_ bad news.”

“It’s good you helped her,” Brienne said. She put her head down on his shoulder and he ran his hand over her hair. “You could have told me, on the plane, though.” 

“I thought you’d argue,” he said softly.

“Jaime. I love you. I’m not going to stop loving you because we disagree on something. I’m not going to stop being your friend because you think something different to me. But I need you to tell me things.”

“Well,” Jaime said slowly. “About that. Your dad …”

Brienne raised her head. “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine, he’s great, it’s not that,” Jaime said quickly. “But, uh … he let me know that Tyrion has, well. He’s …”

She frowned. “What? Jaime, what has Tyrion done?”

“Apparently organised our cloaking ceremony,” Jaime said rapidly. “At Evenfall Hall. With three hundred guests.”

Brienne stared at him. “_What?_”

“He didn’t tell me,” Jaime said, just as rapidly. “I swear it, Brienne, by the old gods and the new. I only heard today, from your dad. Tyrion’s just … gone rogue or something, I haven’t spoken to him, he probably thinks he’s helping – there’s a dress. Accommodation for the guests. Flowers. Security, for the press.”

“Jaime, I can’t – I can’t –” _Three hundred people. _

_Three hundred people looking at me in a dress, like a sow in silk_.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Jaime said, and Brienne realised she was crying. He cupped her face and smoothed the tears away with his thumbs. “We won’t, alright, we just won’t, I’ll tell Tyrion to go fuck himself and we’ll have the ceremony in front of a weirwood tree on the Isle of Faces with your dad and Tyrion and no-one else. Brienne. Wench, please don’t cry, it’ll be alright.”

“I can’t have all those people staring at me!” Brienne blurted. “I can’t, Jaime, I can’t –”

“You don’t have to, you don’t have to, shhh, Brienne, it’s alright, it’s alright.” He leaned up to kiss her cheek, and then again. “We’ll wear T-shirts and jeans. We’ll eat takeaway on the riverbank. And then we’ll fuck off to Pentos and then Volantis.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know you want –”

“I _want_ your father to be there.” Jaime interrupted. “I want Tyrion to be there. I want it to be something we both enjoy. That’s what I want. Fuck the rest of it. Fuck _all_ of it. Alright, Brienne? Alright?”

She nodded, sniffling. “I’m sorry. I just – all those people.”

He drew her closer again. “Mmm. You know, they’d all see how gorgeous you are –”

Brienne pulled away. “Jaime! Don’t make fun of me!”

He frowned a little. “I’m really not. Brienne. Come on, come sit down.” He drew her towards the couch. “What do you want for dinner tonight, Pentoshi? Lysene? I promise it’s not that hot without the pepper sauce. Or that place Tyrion likes, with the YiTish beef and capon and the lemon pigeon?”

She let him pull her down onto the couch. “The YiTish place,” she said. “I like the lemon pigeon.”

“Noodles or rice?”

“Rice,” Brienne said.

“Done deal.” Jaime drew her head down to his shoulder and she leaned into him, closing her eyes. She heard him tapping at his phone, and then a moment later the television came to life. The familiar title music of _Sunspear Vice_ filled the room, and Brienne opened her eyes again. “What are you putting on?”

“Season one, episode nine,” Jaime said. “The one where Arsehole Zitface saves his partner’s life.”

“I like that one,” Brienne murmured.

“I know,” Jaime said softly. “So we’ll watch it, and the one after, and the one after that, and we’ll eat lemon pigeon, and ice-cream if you have room.”

She raised her head a little. “We can watch _Bedding and the City_ if you want.”

“But I don’t want.” Jaime kissed the top of her head. “Shh, you’re going to miss the mandatory opening car chase.”

“We don’t have ice-cream. I cleaned out the fridge before we went to Dorne.”

“I just ordered some, with dinner. Is that the same car Anus Oakbrain drives in the latest epsiodes?”

“No, he crashed it in season two and it blew up.”

“Pity he wasn’t in it.”

Brienne poked him in the ribs. “Jaime.”

“That partner of his could have moved on to someone who deserves her.”

“Jaime!”

“It’s been five years, wench.” He squeezed her shoulder and drew her closer. “Even I caught on sooner. Maybe _he_ should see a shrink, too.” He paused. “Speaking of, I was wondering if you’d come with me to see Luwin tomorrow?”

Brienne raised her head to look at him. “Of course, if you want me to. Why?”

“I have to start thinking about how I’m going to handle Tommen and Myrcella’s … situation. And you’re sort of involved in all that, now.”

“Of course I’ll come, but Jaime, you know I’ll support whatever’s in the best interests of Tommen and Myrcella. Whatever that is.”

“I know.” Jaime wrapped his other arm around her. “But honestly, I’d like your opinions on it. I don’t exactly have a terrifically sound understanding of healthy family relationships.”

“You sort of do.” Brienne slipped her arms around his waist. “I mean, there’s Tyrion. From what you’ve both said about your father, and his childhood, I get the feeling you basically raised him. And how old were you when he was born, eight? Nine?”

“Eight. But Aunt Genna was around a lot, when he was really small. And there was a nanny, or something. It’s not like I changed his diapers or anything.”

She reached up to kiss his cheek just above the line of his beard. “No, but look at him now. He’s successful doing a job he enjoys, he’s in a great relationship with Shae, he’s happy. Can you imagine what his life would have been like if you hadn’t been in it?” She felt Jaime shudder, actually shudder, at the thought. “So, you know. You might not have been exactly well-parented, but you do know how to give children what they need, because you obviously did that for Tyrion.”

He chuckled a little. “Wench, you are always determined to view me in the best possible light.”

“No, Jaime.” She kissed him again. “I see you clearly, that’s all.”


	86. Brienne XXXVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Maester Luwin's office

Even though she hadn’t met Maester Luwin, Brienne recognised him immediately from the picture she’d seen on the weirnet when Jaime had first been referred to him. She wasn’t entirely sure about the protocol for meeting your husband’s psychologist, but Luwin offered his hand, so Brienne shook it gently and took the chair beside Jaime’s.

“I asked Brienne to come because I wanted to start trying to work out what to do about …” Jaime paused. “Calling them _my children_ sounds wrong, but genetically, they are, and … well. What to do about Tommen and Myrcella. I told you they’re with their uncle, Stannis?”

Luwin nodded. “Have you spoken to him?”

“Not yet. I thought … I should know what I want to do, first?”

“Mmm,” Luwin said. “And do you have any idea what that might be?”

“Well, what’s best for them, of course. I don’t … I’m not going to go storming down to Dragonstone and demanding custody, and I’m not going to run away from my responsibilities, either. But I’m not sure what … what to actually do. Brienne –” Jaime glanced at her and reached out for her hand. “Brienne pointed out that they’ll find out, eventually, one way or another. The rumour is out there, and sooner or later they’ll go to one of those genetic testing places, and they won’t be related to any Baratheon, that I’m sure of.”

“I think your first step should be to talk to their guardian,” Luwin said. “Not only does he have a right to have some input, both legally and ethically, but he’s actually with the children, and is much better placed to know what they need at this time than either you or I. Which will change, as they get older, of course.” 

“Right.” Jaime nodded, his grip on Brienne’s fingers tightening a little. “He’s going to hate me, though. I mean, he’s Robert’s brother.”

“If he’s anything like Renly, he’ll put the children first,” Brienne said quietly.

“Many divorced couples have proved that with determination and goodwill, it’s possible to work with someone you dislike to put children first,” Luwin said. “Whatever the attitude of Stannis Baratheon, you can still do your best. Let’s talk about some strategies to help you do that.”

Brienne sat quietly and held Jaime’s hand while he and Luwin talked. He hadn’t wanted her here for her opinions, she realised. _He wanted me here because he wanted me here._ She stroked his thumb with her own and tried to send all the love and support she felt through their clasped hands.

“I thought about inviting them all to our cloaking ceremony,” Jaime said. “But it’s going to be small.”

Brienne frowned a little. “Jaime, it doesn’t have to be so small that Tommen and Myrcella can’t come.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Jaime smiled at her. “I know you don’t want anyone there.” He glanced back at Luwin. “My idiot brother, trying to be helpful, organised an extravaganza, which we’re cancelling.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can’t invite Tommen and Myrcella if you want them there,” Brienne said. “And Stannis and Selyse, I suppose? And Shireen, if the others – you can’t leave her out.”

“You didn’t want a lot of people,” Jaime pointed out.

“I don’t want a giant crowd of people staring at me!” Brienne said. “That doesn’t mean I’m banning your … banning Tommen and Myrcella, and their new family. I wouldn’t do that!”

Jaime glanced at Luwin. “Should I invite them?”

“I think you should talk to Mr Baratheon about it,” Luwin said. “He would have more insight about what would be most helpful to Tommen and Myrcella at this time. But in my opinion, it would be easier for them in a less exclusive gathering. If they’re two of … what, ten guests, at an intimate family ceremony? Regardless of whether they’re ready or not, they’ll be forced to confront the fact that their relationship with you is closer than being a cousin once removed.”

“So we should ask more people,” Brienne said, her stomach dropping at the thought. “To make it easier – better – for them.”

“We don’t have to ask them at all,” Jaime said. “It’s not like they’d expect it.”

“But when they find out – and Jaime, they will find out, eventually – how will they feel to know their father didn’t invite them to his cloaking ceremony?” She turned back to Luwin. “How many people would there need to be, to make it better for them?”

“How many were planned for your _extravaganza_?” Luwin asked.

“Three hundred,” Jaime said, and Brienne felt her stomach sink again.

“I mean, if there were … just people, I guess. Some?” She clutched Jaime’s hand. “And I could just wear … something? Not a dress, I’d look –” _like a sow in silk._

Jaime turned to face her, frowning. “Brienne?”

“Perhaps you’d like some water,” Luwin said, pouring a glass full from the jug on his desk and reaching over to put it in front of Brienne.

“Thanks.” She took it with the hand Jaime wasn’t holding and gulped it down. “What if we had … say, twenty people. Would that be too few?” She worried at her lip with her teeth for a moment. “Jaime, you have other cousins, right?”

Jaime nodded. “A few.” 

“You could invite them. And then Tommen and Myrcella would sort of fit in with that.”

“And your family?” Luwin asked.

Brienne shrugged. “I don’t have anyone but Dad, really. But I could ask the Starks. And Sandor.”

“What about Renly?” Jaime asked. “Not only did you used to work with him, but he’d fit in with Stannis.”

Brienne flinched, hearing Loras Tyrell’s voice. _He thinks she’s absurd. Grotesque. More a man than a woman, and not enough of either. _“If you think that’s a good idea,” she said, and her voice sounded odd and far away.

“Brienne?” Jaime asked again.

“Perhaps you might give me some time to talk to Brienne, Jaime,” Luwin said mildly.

Jaime hesitated, and then nodded. “Alright. I’ll be right outside, in the waiting room, Brienne, if you need me.”

“I’m really alright,” Brienne said.

He squeezed her fingers, then let her hand go and stood up. “Right outside, in the waiting room,” he repeated.

The door closed behind him and Brienne twisted her fingers together in her lap, staring at them. “Um. What did you want to talk to me about? I’m not – I really don’t have any problem with Tommen and Myrcella, or doing what’s best for them. I’m not just pretending, for Jaime’s sake.”

“I know,” Luwin said, and Brienne looked up in surprise. He gave her a small, gentle smile. “You just volunteered to do something that clearly distresses you, if it would be in their interest. I wondered, though, if you’d like to talk about just what distresses you, and why.”

Brienne shrugged. “I don’t like people staring at me. I’d rather … I’d almost rather not _have_ a cloaking ceremony, to be honest, but I don’t mind if it’s just … I mean, Dad doesn’t care what I look like any more than Jaime does and Tyrion’s never treated me any different to normal people, I suppose because he knows what it’s like, but … other people.” She bit her lip again.

“Normal people?”

“Well, I’m, you know …” Brienne waved a hand. “Me. This big ugly freak. I never even …” Brienne laced her fingers together and stared down at her white knuckles. “I gather Jaime’s told you, that we … um. Haven’t. That I never have.”

“He mentioned that he was concerned that there might be some traumatic experience in your past,” Maester Luwin said.

“There isn’t,” Brienne said quickly. “I’m just … you know. A bit weird, I guess.”

“Mmm.” Luwin paused. “Jaime has talked about what happened when you were both kidnapped, Miss Tarth. I’d call that a traumatic experience, for you as well as him.”

Brienne looked up, startled. “Well, yes, but no, I mean, I wasn’t … raped or anything.”

“Did you fear that you might be?”

“Of course, I’m not stupid. But that’s not … it has nothing to do with it. I just … I’m this big ugly virgin that no man ever wanted, except as a joke, and now Jaime _does_, and I should know how and I don’t, and –” Seven Hells, her eyes were prickling and her throat was hot and swollen and she was going to start crying about her complete lack of a normal sex life in front of an elderly gentleman who looked like she should be giving up her seat on the bus for him.

“Mmm,” Luwin said again, and pushed the box of tissues on his desk closer to her. “Miss Tarth. First of all, whatever expectations you may have absorbed from popular culture, there’s no right or wrong way to conduct your intimate life, as long as everyone is an adult and everyone consents. Secondly, you might be a little older than the median age for a first sexual relationship, but you’re hardly unique, or even an outlier, statistically speaking. Thirdly, you’re clearly in distress, and I would like to refer you to both a sex therapist and another counsellor.”

Brienne swallowed, and nodded. “You think I need … a specialist. To fix it.”

Luwin smiled a little. “I don’t think you need to be fixed, Miss Tarth. I think you need someone with more expertise than I have in this particular area to help you explore your feelings about your sexual history, so you can feel more confident in your choices and less anxious about them. And I think you need someone to help you find a way through the traumatic experiences you’ve had, and it would be better if it wasn’t me, given that I counsel your husband.”

“I told you, I haven’t – I mean, yes, I saw Eddard Stark shot, and there were the Brave Companions, but that’s not anything to do with … _this._”

“Humour me,” Luwin said gently. He wrote on a piece of paper, and held it out to her. “Doreah Lysene is from Essos. Their qualifications are different there, so she isn’t a maester, but she is the equivalent. She’s a specialised sex therapist, which has nothing to do with _fixing_ people. Maester Genna was at the Citadel with me. She’s who I’d refer a family member to.”

Brienne took the paper. “I just … I mean, I don’t even have nightmares any more, much. Not even about Biter.”

“Biter?”

Brienne turned her face so Luwin could see the scar. “I was … there was a fight. But when I was in the hospital they had a counsellor, he really helped.” She shrugged. “I’m …”

“Mmm,” Luwin said. “Let me tell you what I see. I see a young woman who has been through three separate traumatising experiences in the past eighteen months. And a young woman who is clearly distressed at the idea of being visible, and who uses derogatory terms about herself entirely seriously. Both those things concern me. I think your quality of life would be improved if you addressed them.” 

Brienne stared at him. “But my quality of life is wonderful. I’m married to a marvellous man who loves me, I don’t need to worry about money for the first time in my life. Everything’s great.”

“Humour me,” Luwin said again.


	87. Brienne XXXVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne talks about sex.

_He just said I should talk to some people_, Brienne told Jaime. He wrapped his arm around her waist and leaned up to kiss her cheek, whispering _Why should I be the only one in therapy, hmm?_

So, alright, Brienne made appointments, and two days later she found herself sitting in a low armchair across from Doreah Lysene. Doreah was only a little older than Brienne herself, and like Brienne she was fair-haired and blue-eyed, although her hair was a deeper gold than Brienne’s pale straw and her eyes shaded a little towards grey. Her office was not particularly office-like at all – there wasn’t even a desk, just a few comfortable armchairs grouped together around a coffee-table.

Brienne perched on the edge of her chair. “I, um. Maester Luwin suggested I come and see you?”

Doreah nodded. “Would you like to tell me why?”

Brienne stared down at her hands. “My husband and I …” Suddenly, she wished Jaime was there. _He finds it so easy to talk about these kinds of things._ “We’re … I’m a virgin.”

“Mmm,” Doreah said. “And by that, do you mean that you and your husband don’t engage in any sexual activity?”

Brienne looked up, startled. “No, we … do things. But I’ve never … and so we haven’t … you know.”

“You haven’t had penetrative vaginal intercourse, with your husband or anyone else,” Doreah said, and Brienne felt her cheeks flame. She nodded. “And this is a concern to you.” Brienne nodded again. “Is it a concern because of your expectations, or your husband’s?”

“Mine.” Brienne’s voice came out as a whisper, and she cleared her throat and tried again. “Mine. Jaime – my husband – he’s been very sweet about it. Very patient.” Doreah continued to look at her expectantly, and Brienne tried to explain. “I just … I mean, I don’t know what it’ll be like. What if I don’t like it? What if I’m really bad at it, and he doesn’t like it?”

“Did you have those anxieties at the start of your sexual relationship?”

Brienne shook her head. “There wasn’t … well, time, I guess. We just – he kissed me and, what’s that saying, one thing led to another? If I’d thought about it, I probably would have worried, but … it just all happened.” 

“And is it satisfying, for both of you?”

Brienne could feel herself blushing again. She nodded.

“Alright. So, just to be sure I’m clear, you have a mutually satisfying sexual relationship with your husband, but you feel you should engage in a specific sex act, which at this time you don’t wish to do, and which your husband isn’t pressuring you to do.”

“It sounds a bit stupid when you put it like that,” Brienne mumbled.

“It’s not at all stupid,” Doreah assured her. “We live in a society that has a long history of fetishizing penetrative vaginal intercourse. The entire concept of virginity is grounded in that history. Now, if I were a maester, I’d have to say something like _and how do you feel about that_ at this point. But I’m not a maester, thank R'hllor, so I can give you some advice. Go home and continue to enjoy sex with your husband. When, or if, you become comfortable with the idea of adding more activities, feel free to come back and see me as a couple, so I can advise you both on how to minimise uncertainty and maximise comfort and pleasure.” She smiled. “Or just go for it, of course. I promise, it doesn’t take a silver link to get it right.”

“Will it hurt?” Brienne asked in a small voice. “I’ve heard that it hurts.”

“You may experience some discomfort and some slight bleeding, depending on your hymen,” Doreah said. “There are some rare conditions that can cause real pain and discomfort, such as muscle spasms, in which case you should both stop, and seek a diagnosis. But generally, no, it won’t hurt.” She smiled. “It did feel very odd, the first time, for me. You and your husband might want to experiment with a sex toy such as a vibrator, first, so you get used to the feeling.”

Brienne stared at her, feeling her cheeks burning. _How on earth do I raise _that_ subject with Jaime? _“I. Um.”

“Again, you can always come and see me as a couple, if there are topics you’d feel more comfortable if I explained them to your husband, rather than you.” 

“That might be easier,” Brienne mumbled.

“Can I suggest you try, though?” Doreah said. “Communication is very important to a satisfying sexual relationship. It’s natural that you feel shy about raising explicit topics, but practice will help with that. So perhaps attempt to talk about the subject with your husband, and then come back if you find you really can’t?”

Brienne nodded, fixing her gaze on her hands. “I’ll … try.”

Accordingly, that night, as she and Jaime sprawled on the couch together watching the end of a _One Thousand Eyes And One_ expose of working conditions in Westerlands mines, Brienne cleared her throat. “Um, Jaime? I went to see … Maester Luwin referred me to …” She chewed her lip for a moment. “About me being a virgin.”

“I hope whoever it was told you to stop fucking worrying about it,” Jaime said. “Or do I mean to stop worrying about fucking? Maybe both.”

“More or less,” Brienne said.

Jaime kissed her cheek. “Good. And will you?”

“I’ll try to. But … she also said that …” Her mouth dried.

“Mmm.” Jaime kissed her cheek again. “Judging by how pink you just went, she said something involving sex.”

“Yes,” Brienne admitted. “That, um …”

“Just take a deep breath and blurt it out,” Jaime advised.

Brienne took a deep breath. “That it might be easier if we practiced with a thing,” she said rapidly.

“A _thing_? Like a sex toy?” Jaime asked, and Brienne nodded. “Well, I don’t particularly want either of us to be photographed going into _Penny Jenny’s_ or _The Peach_ –”

“A stupid idea, yes,” Brienne said quickly.

“I was going to say, so I’ll ask Shae, who will definitely have an expert opinion, and who will definitely not attract any attention buying every sex toy on the market.”

“Shae? Why Shae?”

Jaime chuckled. “She runs a strip club, and her previous career was as a sex-worker. A very expensive one, that’s how she and Tyrion met. Luwin should have probably just sent you to talk to her in the first place.”

“So she’ll know,” Brienne whispered. 

“Brienne, I’m entirely confident that Shae knows we’re having sex already. I’ll just ask her to buy us an assortment. I mean, I’m sure there’s plenty of things we’ll both enjoy.”

“Jaime!”

He laughed, and kissed her cheek and then her forehead. “Wench, I almost hope you never get over your shyness, because your blushes are so exquisite.” 

She hid her face against his shoulder. “It’s just embarrassing to talk about.”

“But not to do?”

“You make me feel too good to be embarrassed,” Brienne said honestly. “I probably would be, if you gave me time to think about it.”

“Note to self, do not give Brienne time to think,” Jaime said.

On the screen, the story ended, and Maynard Plumm said _And now, a repeat of one of our most popular programs from earlier in the year – Ulwyck Uller’s profile of Jaime Lannister. _“Seven Hells, turn it off!” Brienne said, trying to find the remote.

Jaime held it out of her reach. “I’m curious. And I think it’s far enough away now that I can stand to watch it.”

“But I’m _in_ it,” Brienne pointed out.

Jaime raised his eyebrows. “Wench, you’re also in my living room, would you like me to avoid that as well?”

“You know what I mean, I don’t want to see myself all – I know what I look like, I just don’t want to _look_ at it.”

“You can hide behind me when you’re onscreen, then,” Jaime said.

Uller’s summary of the scandal that had enveloped Jaime finished, and the camera cut to Jaime and Brienne sitting side-by-side on that very couch. Brienne flinched, and closed her eyes, as Jaime’s voice said _Yes, it’s true. I don’t really remember when it started, but we were children, fooling around. It just … didn’t end, until about a year ago._

“You look fine,” Jaime said to the top of Brienne’s head. “The light washes you out a bit, but that’s all.”

_I don’t know when I fell in love with her, I just always was. She was unhappy … I wanted to do whatever would help her, whatever she said would help her feel better._

_How did you learn about this? _Uller asked, and Brienne heard her own voice, sounding odd coming from the television. _Jaime told me. _Another question, and her own voice again. _No, I don’t think less of him, of course not._

_Brienne Tarth and Jaime Lannister met on a film set,_ Uller said, and Brienne opened her eyes to see him standing in front of the ruined building that had been the Brave Companions’ gang clubhouse. _But it’s clear that it was here, in what was the headquarters of the most vicious gang in the North, that their relationship started, a story that for legal reasons, we haven’t been able to tell before. Kidnapped and held for ransom, Jaime Lannister was brutally injured, his life in danger. _

_She saved my life,_ Jaime’s voice said. _That’s not an exaggeration. I would have died if she hadn’t been there._

_You saved me,_ Brienne put in. _He was incredibly brave through it all. When I started to fall in love with him, it might have been when he wanted to make Vargo Hoat say thapphireth. He lied to them, you see, so they’d think I was worth keeping alive, told them that Tarth is the Sapphire Isle because of gemstones. But the fact that he could make a joke, after all he’d been through … _

“That was … from four different answers. Can they do that?” Brienne asked.

“They always do. I mean, how many days did they film? For thirty minutes of television? So long as you’re not misrepresented, they cut it together without the interruptions.”

Jon Snow on screen, his long face solemn. _It was an incredibly dangerous situation. This gang was volatile, cruel, and extremely violent. I can’t speak highly enough of the professionalism of my officers in managing to end the hostage situation without any casualties to either the Watch or to civilians. _

“Why are they talking about this so much?” Brienne asked.

“Because Ulwyck seems to be on my side,” Jaime said.

_When we breached the back room, we found Mr Lannister gravely ill, and Miss Tarth shielding him with her body. Her presence of mind and composure was impressive. She’d been badly beaten herself, but her only concern was for Mr Lannister and his well-being. _

_I didn’t do anything anyone wouldn’t have,_ Brienne said, as the scene changed back to their apartment. _Allow me to bloody well differ,_ Jaime countered, and leaned across to kiss her cheek right on camera.

“They _filmed_ that?” Brienne said, appalled. She found she could bear to look at herself if she squinted a bit so she wasn’t in such clear focus. 

“Shock horror, man kisses wife’s cheek,” Jaime said, chuckling.

_Earlier in the year, Jaime Lannister gave our viewers an insight into the arduous process of recovering from a serious injury_, Uller’s voice said over a montage of images from the earlier story he’d done on Jaime, intercut with some of the newer shots of him with Brienne at the gym or in the kitchen. _He requested privacy for the woman who is now his wife, and so our viewers didn’t know how important Brienne Tarth’s support and encouragement was to him throughout it all. _

_I talked about having bad days_, Jaime said. _Honestly, I don’t think I would have gotten through some of them without Brienne either here, or on the phone. I never really understood just how important it is to be … just kind. Or how powerful, either. _Then he grinned at the camera, not his smooth professional smile but just Jaime. _It didn’t hurt that I was falling in love with her, of course, although I was too stupid to realise it. Honestly, it took me far too long to realise the reason I wanted to hear her voice every single day. _And then he started laughing. _I actually had to marry her to realise I was in love, how fucked up is that?_

_If the start of their relationship was in dramatic circumstances, their marriage was even more so_, Uller said, and a very young woman Brienne didn’t recognise appeared on the screen. _Willa Manderly_ scrolled across the bottom of the television. _I thought I was going to die,_ she said. _One of them kicked me so hard, my leg just broke. I couldn’t get away. And then I heard this voice, this woman’s voice, and she said _Leave her be, if you want to rape someone, try me._ I never thought … I never thought I’d meet a real-life hero, but Brienne Tarth is one_.

Brienne felt her face flame. “Oh, gods be good, they should have left that poor girl alone.”

_Some viewers might find the following CCTV footage disturbing_, Uller’s voice said, and grainy black-and-white footage of Fishfoot Yard appeared. It took Brienne a moment to recognise herself, on screen – the angle minimised her height and somehow made her seem less clumsy than she knew she was. She drew Oathkeeper and stepped forward, and Brienne turned to press her face against Jaime’s shoulder. “I can’t watch this. Tell me when it’s over.”

_Miss Tarth did what we always advise members of the public to do, she called three-three-seven_, Jon Snow’s voice said. _But seeing Miss Manderly in immediate danger, she then put herself at risk to distract the attackers’ attention. Without her brave action, it seems very likely there would have been a tragic outcome._

_Gravely injured, Miss Tarth was flown here, to the Quiet Isle Hospital, for specialist treatment_, Uller said.

“It’s over,” Jaime said, and Brienne risked another glance at the screen.

_The rules of this strict religious institution prohibit male visitors overnight, unless related by blood or marriage,_ Uller said, and then Jaime was back on the screen _Thank the Seven for obscure precedents and old laws_, he said, smiling.

_I was somewhat surprised to wake up and find myself married, yes,_ Brienne’s voice said dryly. _But it turned out quite well, in the end. _

_And how do you feel about the comments Cersei Lannister made about your marriage? _Uller’s voice asked. Brienne looked away from the screen as the camera closed in on her ugly face and heard herself say _I feel very sorry for Cersei Lannister, I haven’t seen the liveraven but it’s clear she’s a very unhappy woman and addiction of any kind is a difficult illness to conquer. I wish her all the best._

_I haven’t seen her in more than a year, _Jaime said._ I had no idea her drinking had gotten so bad._

_So what does the future hold for Jaime Lannister and Brienne Tarth?_ Uller asked, and Jaime-on-the-screen shrugged. _Normal life, I hope. _

_Normal life may be hard to achieve for someone in the spotlight as much as Jaime Lannister_, Uller’s voice said over a montage of Jaime cooking, Jaime and Brienne on the couch watching television and her laughing as he pretended to hide behind her, Jaime and Brienne sparring at the _Dawnstar _gym, Jaime sprawled on the couch reading with his head in Brienne’s lap. _But for a couple who have already overcome more obstacles than many face in a lifetime, nothing seems impossible for Jaime Lannister and Brienne Tarth._

Jaime switched the television off. “I wonder if Tyrion just outright bribed him, or if Uller’s really bought Joy’s redemption narrative.” 

“Maybe he can see it’s true,” Brienne said, leaning up to kiss him.

His lips curved into a smile against hers. “Maybe he could see that you’re the much better story. He couldn’t go so hard on me if he wanted to tell the story of heroic Brienne Blue Knight. Next time you should let them do make-up, though. It’s the only way to look actually natural on camera. Otherwise you always look a bit pale and bleached out.”

“I hope there’s never a next time.”

“But you came across really well.” Jaime sounded surprised. “Just so calm, and kind, and modest – and funny.”

“Yes, but how I _looked_,” Brienne pointed out.

“Mmm.” Jaime kissed her, gently. “When’s your next appointment, by the way?”

“Tomorrow, why?”

He shrugged. “Whoever Luwin referred you to probably saw the story when it aired. I’m given to understand it was their highest rating for the year so far. So that gives you somewhere to start talking about … all the things that happened.”

“I honestly don’t think I need to,” Brienne said. “None of it really worries me any more.”

Jaime ran his hand over her hair. “Can’t hurt, though, can it?”

“I guess not.” Brienne put her head down on his shoulder again. “I guess it can’t.” 


	88. Brienne XXXVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne sees Maester Genna, and has an unsettling realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that the best coverage of Brienne’s self-esteem issues I’ve read is by janie_tangerine, specifically "a light shining in my breast, leading me through the dark" here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21124718

Maester Genna was a square-set woman of middle age, with a broad smooth face and a bosom so enormous it seemed as if only a miracle of structural engineering could keep it in place. Her office had a desk, and chairs, like Luwin’s, but it was decorated in warm pastel hues and had so many plants that it was hard to identify a single flat surface that didn’t hold at least one.

She waited for Brienne to get settled in one of the pale pink chairs facing her desk and then gave her a warm smile. “You mentioned that my colleague Luwin referred you to me. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your concerns?”

Brienne shrugged, plucking at the seam of her jeans. “I don’t really have any. I mean, I have this weird virgin thing going on, but he sent me to see a sex therapist about that.”

“Weird virgin thing?”

“I’m a virgin, and it’s weird.”

“Ah. And have you seen that therapist yet?”

Brienne nodded. “She said that it wasn’t that weird.”

Genna smiled. “Good. Because it isn’t. It’s also quite normal to feel anxiety about measuring up to what you think are social expectations, too, especially when you’re young. It’s alright to have those feelings, and it’s healthy to address them, so I’m glad you’re doing that. Why else do you think Luwin suggested you see me?”

“Some things happened. I was kidnapped. Um, before that, I saw someone killed. Shot. And then there was Biter.” Brienne touched her cheek reflexively. “But I really feel I’ve dealt with all of that pretty well.”

“Did you go to see Maester Luwin about these experiences?” Genna asked.

Brienne shook her head. “No. It was about … things between me and my husband. Um. I mean, I was there to support my husband, but then Maester Luwin suggested I see you. And Doreah.” She managed a smile. “Like my husband says, it can’t hurt, right?”

“Can I ask what you were talking about when he made that suggestion?”

“Our cloaking ceremony. Jaime and I – I wanted something small, and my goodbrother started to organise something really, _really_ large, which is the last thing I want, and then we were talking about how big it needed to be to invite the people who really should be there, and …” Brienne shrugged. “I mean, I’ll do whatever is best for Jaime and his family, but I’m not really comfortable with … a lot of people.”

“Mmm,” Maester Genna said. “Because of the crowd, or …?”

“No, I don’t have … whatever-phobia. I just don’t want a lot of people looking at me.”

“Because …?”

Brienne stared at her. “Because of the way I look.”

“And what do you mean by _the way you look_?”

“Well, look at me.” Brienne waved a hand. “I mean, Jaime is … blind, I guess, or at least, he doesn’t care about looks, but that’s _him. _I was surprised he even wanted to be friends with me, let alone … that he might love me. I know I’m not attractive, I mean, I know I’m an ugly freak, Jaime doesn’t mind that, but it doesn’t make it not true.”

“How do you know?” Genna asked. “How do you know that you’re ugly?”

Brienne snorted. “I have a mirror. And even if I didn’t, people tell me.”

“Who was the first person who told you?”

“A Septa. Septa Roelle. I had this dress, for Sept …” Brienne shrugged. “My mum died when I was little. Dad did his best, he was a great father, but he didn’t know much about clothes, I guess, and he just let me wear what I wanted. I suppose he didn’t realise how stupid I looked with frills and things, and I didn’t know, so Septa Roelle … she meant well. To stop me making a fool of myself.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven,” Brienne said. _The year after Galladon died. _The two clearest memories of her childhood.

“And were there others?”

Brienne raised her eyebrows. “Well, look at me. Of course there were. At school, at work.”

“Mmm,” Genna said.

“Do they teach that at the citadel?” Brienne asked. “That _mmm_ noise?”

Genna smiled. “Actually, yes, they do. Along with a lot of other things. Now, I’ve got this list here, and I’d like you to tell me if any of the statements are true for you, alright?” Brienne nodded. “If a person compliments my appearance, I think they’re lying.”

“Well, obviously,” Brienne said.

“I’m extremely critical of my appearance.”

“No,” Brienne said. “I’m honest about it.”

“I ignore my positive qualities.”

Brienne shrugged. “Jaime says I have nice eyes.”

“I think the way I look is worse than other people.”

Brienne laughed. “Yes, well. As I said, I own a mirror.”

“I use negative words like ugly to describe myself.”

“I … do, yes.” Brienne said. She paused. “But that’s being honest.”

“Mmm,” Genna said again. “Here’s the thing. There’s something called _self-esteem_, and it just means your opinion about yourself. Everyone had bad days, but if you have low self-esteem, you feel bad about yourself most of the time. Maybe like you’re surprised that someone even wants to be friends with you. Maybe as if being loved is something you don’t have a right to expect. Maybe as if the way you look makes you _an ugly freak_. And that makes your life a lot harder and more unhappy than it needs to be.”

“Yes, but …” Brienne stopped. _But I _am_ ugly. I _am_ a freak. _“But _look_ at me!”

“Let me ask you a question. What is the worst that could happen, if you stopped being self-conscious about your appearance?”

_You’re not doing her any favours by dressing her up like a sow in silk … I thought _someone_ should give you roses, since you’re so ugly you’ll never get them for real … Absurd. Grotesque. More a man than a woman, and not enough of either … Another hot date tonight, Butch? _The voices echoed through her head and her eyes burned. “I’d look stupid. As if I didn’t understand how ugly I am.”

“And has that happened?” Genna leaned forward and put a box of tissues in front of Brienne.

Brienne grabbed a handful and blotted at her face, nodding. “Just, you know. Teasing.”

“Mmm,” said Genna. “Let me talk to you about a different way to think about that.”

Forty minutes later, Brienne found herself standing on the sidewalk without moving until someone cannoned into her, staggered, and cursed her.

“Sorry,” she said numbly, and started walking. A blaring car-horn made her start, and she realised she’d started walking right into the road. She stumbled back to the curb, turned, and began walking blindly.

_What you define as _teasing_, I’d describe as bullying_, Maester Genna’s calm, motherly voice said.

Brienne came to a corner and turned.

_Bullying is a form of abuse, and it can have long-term emotional and psychological consequences. _

She reached the end of the street, crossed over and started down the next block.

_Victims of bullying can experience a range of symptoms in adulthood, including those included in the complex of post-traumatic syndrome disorders. Symptoms like feeling physically and psychologically distressed when something reminds you of the event, avoiding memories of the event, having negative beliefs about yourself, blaming yourself, feeling negative, guilty or ashamed, and avoiding doing things you used to enjoy._

_Does any of that sound familiar?_

Brienne crossed another street, distantly hearing a blaring horn. _I really liked that dress. I begged Dad for it for months. I was so proud of it. He had to send to the mainland for it. _

_It probably cost more than he could afford. _

_I used to love roses, too. _

There were trees around her, a bench. She sat down before her legs could give way under her. Her phone squawked and she fumbled it out of her pocket. _18 missed texts_, all from Jaime.

She pressed _call_. “Jaime?”

“Hey, wench,” he said cheerfully.

“Are you busy?” Her voice shook, as hard as she tried to keep it steady.

“What do you need?” Jaime asked instantly.

“Can you come and get me? I need to go home.”

“Yes, I can, I will, where are you?”

“I don’t know,” Brienne confessed. “A park?”

“Alright,” Jaime said. “A park. Can you see anything that … what can you see?”

“A fountain. It’s … a pig?”

“Sowbelly Square,” Jaime said instantly. “Are you near the fountain?”

“Next to it. On a bench.”

“Alright, stay there, so I can find you. Just hold on one moment while I get Peck to bring the car, alright?”

“Yes,” Brienne said, and put the phone down in her lap, and watched the water running down over the back of the bronze pig and into the pool beneath. After a while she realised there were sounds coming from the phone, and lifted it back to her ear. “Jaime?”

“I’m nearly there, alright, nearly there, Brienne. Just stay there. Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, hang on, hang on.” 

“Jaime,” Brienne said. “I need to go home.”

“I’m coming to get you, I’m nearly there –”

And suddenly she could hear his voice oddly doubled, through the phone and near her, and she looked up to see him jogging towards her. She put her phone back in her pocket as he sat down beside her and put his arms around her and she was alright again, suddenly, somehow. She put her head down on his shoulder. “Jaime.”

“I’m here, you’re alright, you’re safe. Do you want to tell me what happened, or not tell me?”

“Later,” Brienne said. “Can we go home?”

“We absolutely can. Home here, or home to Evenfall?”

He said it as if he was completely ready to take her to Storm’s End and then across Shipbreaker Bay if that was what she wanted or needed. And he _was_, Brienne realised. “Here is fine.”

“Alright. Can you get up?”

“Yes,” Brienne said, and she could, but she was glad Jaime kept his arm around her waist as they walked back to the road where Peck was waiting with the car. He held her hand as Peck drove them home and put his arm back around her as soon as they were out of the car.

“Bed or couch?” Jaime asked as he unlocked the front door.

“Couch,” Brienne decided, so he led her to it and sat down with her and wrapped his arms around her again.

“What do you need?” Jaime asked quietly. “What can I do to help?”

Brienne leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. “This is good. This is helping.”

“Alright.”

“I used to like roses,” Brienne said. Suddenly she couldn’t keep from crying any longer. “I used to like roses!” Without warning, everything began to just tear its way out of her, Septa Roelle and the dress, the roses, Loras and what Renly had said to him, how ridiculous it was that Jaime actually wanted to touch her, her colleagues in the Cloaks and the Rainbow Guard, the kids at school, Connington and Hyle and all the others, _bullying_ and _abuse_ and how awful she felt about herself almost all the time and how terrifying it was to think it hadn’t been necessary, and how stupidly guilty that made her feel …

It all made a storm inside her that would have been unbearable if Jaime’s arms hadn’t been so tight around her, if he hadn’t been holding her so safe and close against him. She wept and wept and wept and he held her and at some point she heard him tell someone to _fuck the fuck off_ and then _not you Brienne, you’re fine, you’re fine_. The sobs were still forcing their way out of her but they hurt less and less, the pain in her chest was easing, and she was tired, so tired, and everything was so much better than it had been and Jaime was holding her and that was wonderful and she was so tired, she was so tired, _I’m so tired Jaime_, and he kissed her cheek and said _rest then, rest, just rest_ so she did. 


	89. Jaime XXXIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after (slightly NSFW)

Jaime made sure his phone was on silent and found _Pretty Pia _in his contacts. _Srry I yelled_, he typed awkwardly and one-handed, one arm wrapped around Brienne’s shoulders. _Was a bad time. Know you wre just bringing B’s dry clening. Wch I asked you 2 do. Am relly srry. Pls don’t quit. Or tell B._

He let the phone drop and looked down at Brienne, nestled against his shoulder. He’d managed to get her to bed and undressed, although he didn’t think she’d actually woken up as he urged her up from the couch. Now, she was sleeping as heavily as if she’d been pole-axed, her eyelids still swollen and her nose still pink. 

There were at least fifteen people Jaime wanted to kill, or punch, or set Varys on, from what Brienne had gasped out between racking sobs. It had been worse than her nightmares, worse even than the fever dreams that had wracked her in the hospital, because it was no phantasm, no delirium – it was real. For Brienne at least, it was _true_.

_Oh, wench, wench._ He kissed her cheek, softly so as not to wake her. When he drew back she was smiling in her sleep, so, alright, he’d done something right. He slipped his free arm around her waist and hooked his ankle over hers and just held her, hoping that it would help, somehow, as it had seemed to help when she was lost in fever and pain.

He dozed a little, woke to check that she was alright, drifted off again for a while and woke again. Brienne slept heavily all night, rolling over once to throw her arm around him and then going absolutely limp once more. The blinds were lightening with dawn before she stirred.

“You can go on sleeping,” Jaime whispered. “It’s alright. You can go on sleeping.”

Brienne smiled without opening her eyes. “Jaime.”

“I’m here,” he promised. “I’ll be here.”

She curled closer to him, pressing her face to his neck, and went limp again. Daylight was sending bright fingers through the slats before she stirred again, and opened her eyes. “Jaime.”

“Good morning, wench. What would you like for breakfast?”

Brienne blinked, and then rubbed her eyes. “Toast?”

“Well, I can do toast. But I was more thinking about anything available in the great city of King’s Landing. Full northern breakfast from Hornwood’s? Pentoshi toast? Lorathi pastries?”

Brienne smiled slowly. “One of your omelettes sounds good.”

It was impossible to resist the urge to lean down and kiss her forehead, so Jaime didn’t even try. “Are you saying that because you want an omelette, or because you’re pretending I can cook?” he whispered against her skin.

“I want an omelette,” Brienne said. “The one you do with Meereenese peppers.”

“Alright.” Jaime kissed her again. “One omelette, coming right up.”

He tore himself away from her and went into the kitchen to crack eggs and heat a pan on the stove.

When he’d finished and slid the omelette onto a plate, he turned to see Brienne, wrapped in her robe, sitting at the dining table. “I would have brought this to you.”

She smiled. “I know. But I needed to wash my face.”

Jaime put the plate in front of her, scrambled up a knife and fork to set beside the plate, and put a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster for his own breakfast. “How are you feeling?”

“Embarrassed,” Brienne said.

“Mmm, because you’re definitely the only one of us to shed tears,” Jaime said. “I was hallucinating all those times I cried on your shoulder.” The toast shot up and he caught it and dropped it onto a plate. “Are you feeling any better?”

Brienne nodded. “This omelette is really good. Just what I wanted.”

Jaime sat at the table next to her. “Do you want to talk about it, or not talk about it?”

She ate in silence for a moment, finishing her omelette so Jaime crunched his unbuttered toast and waited. “I’m not sure I know how,” Brienne said at last.

“I know how _that_ feels,” Jaime said. “But can I say something, then?” Brienne nodded. “I’ve kind of felt for a while that you’re unreasonably hard on yourself, I mean, when that stupid tabloid story in the _Gulltown Gossip_ happened you were just all, well _obviously_ people think Brienne tricked Jaime into friendship, straight away. And I can tell it makes you miserable, at least, when things happen, or we go places. As bad as talking about stuff can make you feel, I know it can make you feel pretty bad, Seven Hells you’ve picked up the pieces on more than one occasion, I think you should go on seeing this maester.”

“She said …” Brienne took a shallow breath, then another. “I should make a list of things I like about myself. At least five things. And that I could ask you to help, if I got stuck. So will you help?”

Jaime put his hand over hers. “Of course. Now, or later? Because I arranged to meet Stannis Baratheon for lunch to talk about the children, but apart from that I don’t have anything I can’t cancel.”

“After lunch, then,” Brienne said. “Because you shouldn’t cancel your training, and I … I’d actually like to go to the gym.”

“Done deal.” Jaime squeezed her fingers. “You want first shower, or …” He gave her his best dirty leer. “We could shower together.”

It won a laugh from her, even if it was only a small one. “Jaime, that’s a guaranteed way to make us both late.”

So they showered separately, jogged to the gym, and spent a sweaty hour being mercilessly tortured by Sandor Clegane. Brienne told him about Gendry’s offer to fit her out for the heavy armour class, and Sandor looked her up and down, nodded, and made her switch her practice sword out for a heavier one. _You’ll need to spend more time on your strength, too,_ he said, and sent her to the weights room while he kept punishing Jaime.

Then they jogged home, showered again – together, this time, after Jaime pointed out he had two-and-a-half hours before he was due to meet Stannis. He lasted barely any time at all once Brienne sank to her knees and took him in her mouth but managed to pull himself together and reciprocate so thoroughly that when he left the apartment to meet Stannis, Brienne was dozing on the bed with a smile on her face.

Jaime had let Stannis pick the restaurant, and Robert’s brother had surprised him by choosing a steakhouse near the Iron Gate. If Jaime had given any thought to the sort of cuisine Stannis Baratheon would prefer, with his lean build and hollow cheeks, he would have expected one of the trendy cafés near the Dragonpit where every salad had kale in it and every cake was gluten free.

When he walked in, Stannis was already eating, but he put his knife and fork down and rose to shake Jaime’s hand. They were of a height, although Stannis was slightly taller, and had the broad shoulders and dark blue eyes of all the Baratheon brothers, although unlike Robert and Renly he had lost most of his black hair. What was left, and his beard, was close cropped.

“I’m sorry if I’m late –” Jaime started.

Stannis shook his head. “You’re not. I’m early, and impolite, and hungry.”

They sat down. Jaime scanned the menu, ordered a T-bone with a salad – Stannis took the opportunity to order a second steak for himself – and then cleared his throat. “I understand that if you’re ever to agree to me spending any time with Tommen and Myrcella, you’ll want to meet my wife Brienne first, but I thought this first conversation would be better with just the two of us.”

Stannis raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard about Brienne from Renly. You might be tying your hands behind your back here by not bringing her.”

Jaime smiled. “Yes, probably, but it seemed fair. How are they, the children?”

“Mending,” Stannis said. “Tommen faster than Myrcella. She protected him from a lot of the worst of it.”

“Yes, that’s how it goes,” Jaime said, remembering Tywin Lannister and Tyrion’s little, wounded, face.

Stannis gave him a shrewd look. “Tommen doesn’t know. Myrcella does, at least, she knows the rumours.”

“Is she alright? About it?”

“She’s confused,” Stannis said bluntly. “You had even less to do with them than Tyrion, you had practically nothing to do with them in fact.”

“Cersei insisted. She thought people would start to suspect, if I spent time with them.”

“Did you know about Joffrey? What he was like?”

Jaime blinked. “What he was like? I mean, I know he shot Ned Stark …”

Stannis eyed him. “So you didn’t know. Tommen had a cat, Joffrey killed it. Cut it open. Myrcella managed to get it out of the house before Tommen saw, told him it had run away. There were other things, too.”

Jaime’s steak arrived and he stared it with absolutely no appetite. “No. I didn’t know.” He took a deep breath, through his mouth so the smell of cooked flesh wouldn’t make him nauseous. _I have to be honest. For the children. _“I know what he did … I know about Margaery Tyrell. Cersei and I weren’t on speaking terms at that point, though.”

“He should have gone to jail for that.” Stannis cut up his second steak, his appetite seemingly unimpeded by the subject matter. “Robert was wrong, on that, on a lot of things. He was my brother, but he was a bad husband and a terrible father.” He forked up a piece of steak and chewed methodically for what Jaime was almost certain was exactly thirty times before swallowing. “The drink didn’t help. Do you drink?”

“I don’t abstain,” Jaime said. “I’ll have a beer, sometimes two, if I’ve nothing on the next day.”

“And your wife?”

“The same, less, really.” He leaned forward a little. “I know there’s all those stories about me falling out of bars or getting kicked out of pubs, but you have to understand, scandal was part of the job. Part of my brand.”

Stannis raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I have to understand, do I?”

And it was the old familiar feeling, Ned Stark staring at him saying _Lannister, what have you done? _Cameras flashing, voices screaming _Kingslayer, Kingslayer, over here! _

Jaime took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the acid in his stomach, wishing futilely for Brienne to be there, wishing for her broad strong hand holding his and her brilliant blue eyes warm and sympathetic. _The children. It’s about the children. Remember that it’s about the children. _“I didn’t put that the way I should. I apologise.” 

Stannis made a noise that could only be described as _humph_. “We don’t have to like each other, Lannister. And we probably won’t. But we need to have some kind of working relationship, for the sake of Tommen and Myrcella.” He sawed at his steak for a moment. “Your brother pointed out to me that if I’d taken a closer interest in my niece and nephew –” He shot a glare at Jaime. “And they are my niece and nephew, whatever you and your cousin got up to, by law, by my choice.” Jaime nodded, and Stannis seemed to thaw minutely. “Well. I should have taken a closer interest, and perhaps things wouldn’t have gotten so bad.” 

“As I said on the phone,” Jaime said, “I want to do whatever’s best for Tommen and Myrcella. Whatever that is. But I hope you’ll, at the very least, let me contribute to their support. An education fund, too. Even if the best thing for them is for me to never see them, I want to fulfil my responsibilities.”

Stannis chewed mechanically, swallowed. “And would you be happy with that? Never seeing them?”

“No,” Jaime said honestly. “I don’t know what sort of relationship it’s reasonable for me to expect with them – I mean, Robert was their _father_, in every way that matters, including legally. But I’d like to know them. But only, _only_, if it’s what’s best for them.”

“Humph,” Stannis said again. He eyed Jaime’s plate. “Are you going to eat that?”

Jaime shook his head. “Lost my appetite.”

Stannis drew Jaime’s plate towards him. “Selyse doesn’t approve of meat,” he said. “I take the children to Merryweather’s after sport on Saturdays, but a burger doesn’t replace a steak.”

“What sports do they play?”

“Shireen plays hockey. Myrcella, basketball. Tommen … well, he’s on the soccer team. I wouldn’t say he _plays soccer_, exactly.” Something like humour lit Stannis’s blue eyes. “He’s not one of nature’s athletes, young Tommen, but he runs around with great enthusiasm.” He paused. “Myrcella wants to see you. Her counsellor thinks it’s at least not a terrible idea.”

Jaime nodded. “How? When?”

“On Dragonstone. At the counsellor’s office, it’s what they call a _safe and neutral_ _environment_. When … well, it depends on your availability, as well.”

“There’s not a lot I can’t cancel,” Jaime said. “Not for the next few weeks, anyway. After that … Brienne and were planning a cloaking ceremony, and a honeymoon.” He felt a pang. _Brienne would be the first to suggest it, though._ “That can be moved, if it’s what’s best for Myrcella.”

Stannis showed the hint of a smile. “And does your wife agree?”

“She would,” Jaime said with absolute certainty. “I … you don’t know Brienne, but take my word for it. She’s … good.”

Stannis ate the last piece of Jaime’s steak, chewed it carefully, and swallowed. “I think we can probably manage to schedule things so you don’t need to postpone your honeymoon. Were you planning to invite Tommen and Myrcella to your cloaking ceremony?”

“Depends a bit,” Jaime said. “Brienne wants something very small, and I don’t want Tommen and Myrcella to be … the only people there who aren’t my brother and her father. We talked about making it a bit bigger, but … Brienne is … well, we might not.”

Stannis nodded. “Up to you,” he said. “I’ll thank you to not mention it to the children until you and your wife make up your minds.”

Jaime nodded. “Understood.”

“So, next week? Dragonstone?”

“Whatever suits. Whatever’s best for the children.”

“Thursday,” Stannis said. He took a card from his pocket and put it in front of Jaime. “Myrcella’s maester address and contact details are on there. She sees her at four on Thursdays.”

Jaime nodded, and took the card. “I’ll be there.” He tucked it away, thinking _At least if I have an anxiety attack trying to talk to my genetic-but-not-really daughter, I’ll already be in a shrink’s office. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that I appreciate every comment, although I haven't been able to respond to all of them (I figure you'd all rather me spend my available time writing more story when the muse is active).


	90. Jaime XXXV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime tries to help.

When he got back to their apartment, Brienne was lying on the couch frowning at a notepad in her lap. She looked up as he closed the door. “How did it go?”

“I’m going to Dragonstone on Thursday. Myrcella wants to see me. Budge up a bit.”

Brienne made room for him and then gave in to his gentle urging and put her head in his lap. “Is that good, do you think?”

Jaime stroked her hair. “I hope. She might want to scream at me in person, of course, which she’s more than entitled to do.” He peered at the pad in her hand. _Eyes_, in Brienne’s neat handwriting, was the only word on it. “That your list?”

“Yeah.”

“That should read _beautiful eyes._ Or _astonishing eyes_.”

_Nice_, Brienne wrote in front of _Eyes_, and chewed the end of her pen, frowning.

Jaime gave her a couple of moments before he spoke. “Still want help?”

“Please. Just … nothing embarrassing. I have to show it to her.”

Jaime was careful not to smile, in case Brienne took it the wrong way. _Nothing about sex, she means. _“I take it these have to be physical things? Because even you could manage to say five nice things about who you are as a person. So let’s see.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “Your hair is a beautiful shade of blonde that women pay a fortune for.”

Brienne tilted her head back to look up at him, brow furrowed. “It’s straw.”

“Also known as _blonde_.” Jaime reached out and tapped the page. “Write it down.”

_Blonde hair_, Brienne wrote.

“You’re incredibly tall and amazingly strong.”

“That’s not a positive,” Brienne mumbled.

_Oh, wench._ “It certainly is for me. And – would you fight as well if you were shorter, and slighter?”

“No,” Brienne admitted.

“And you _like_ fighting, and you _like_ winning, right? So can you like being tall and strong a least a bit, because it lets you do things you like doing?”

She was still a moment, and then gave a decisive nod and wrote _Tall. Strong_. “That’s four. I only need one more.”

“Wonderfully kissable lips,” Jaime suggested.

“My mouth is huge! It makes me look like a fish!”

“Women go to cosmetic maesters and have painful injections to get a mouth like yours.”

“I’m sure that can’t be true,” Brienne said doubtfully.

“Wench, I’ve been in the business since I was a teenager, I know more about which actresses – and actors – have had what procedures than I suspect even Petyr fucking Baelish does. Look.” Jaime dug out his phone and tapped the 3ER icon. “Taena Myr … there, see?” He held the phone so Brienne could see the screen. “She used to use fillers but she had a fat transfer last year, or so Margaery Tyrell says.”

Brienne stared at Taena Myr’s inarguably plump lips. “A fat transfer? From where?”

“I hope for her future co-stars from her _stomach_,” Jaime said, and Brienne snorted with laughter. “So. Write down your lips. And add your laugh, while you’re at it, if your maester tells you it doesn’t count you’ve already got five. And your smile, although that might be a subset of _lips_.”

“My smile?”

“When you smile, really smile, you look so happy I defy anyone who isn’t my father not to be immediately cheered up. Let’s see, what else … your ankles. They’re perfect.”

Brienne raised her leg and stared at her foot. “Ankles.”

“Your legs in general are pretty great.”

“They’re too big,” Brienne protested.

“Wench, if they were the size of Margaery Tyrell’s or Jeyne Westerling’s, you wouldn’t be able to fight all day when tourney season comes. I see you in the gym every day. You work hard to get that muscle, and it looks terrific.” She tilted her head back to look up at him again, and Jaime smiled at her. “Really, Brienne. I’m not making it up. You _think_ your legs are _too big_ because you’re wearing all the wrong clothes to show them off properly.”

She frowned. “I wear the wrong clothes?”

He leaned down to kiss her. “I don’t have a problem with you wearing whatever you want to wear,” he assured her. “I just mean, there’s a reason there’s a whole industry devoted to making about a million different cuts of basically the same item of clothing, and that’s because some things look better on some people than others.” Inspiration struck. “Come on, get your shoes, I’ll show you.”

Brienne let him pull her to her feet. “Where are we going?”

“Shopping.”

“Jaime, no, I hate buying clothes.”

Jaime grinned at her. “Not for you, wench, for me.”

It took a little persuading, but he got her out of the house and into the car. Peck dropped them at Jaime’s favourite shop for off-the-rack menswear, _Estermonts_ in Pigrun Alley. Even though Jaime hadn’t called ahead, it didn’t take long for Alyn himself to appear as Jaime flicked through the racks.

Jaime drew him aside and lowered his voice. “Listen, Alyn, I need you to find me the most unflattering things you can.”

Alyn’s eyebrows went up. “Unflattering?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t buy them, your brand won’t suffer from people seeing me looking like you don’t know how to dress a customer. It’s … for a role.” _Well, sort of true. Role of supportive husband and friend. _“And while you’re at it, I know you don’t do women’s clothes, but my wife shops in the men’s section usually. You wouldn’t have a pair of jeans that would make her look really, _really_ good, would you?”

Alyn looked Jaime up and down, and then gave Brienne the same treatment. “Let me see what I can do.”

Once he had an armful of clothes, Jaime led Brienne to the changerooms and settled her on the nearest seat. “Right. I’ll be relying on your honest opinion.”

The first pair of pants he tried on proved that Alyn was up to the challenge. They had _everything_ wrong with them: a high waist, that always made Jaime look shorter and heavier than he was; pleats, which might as well have been designed to conceal the fact that his legs were heavy with well-earned muscle and not from long sedentary hours; multiple pockets, to add bulk. He stepped out of the changeroom and turned on the spot in front of Brienne. “What do you think?”

“Um.” Brienne bit her lip. “Are there others?”

There were, all bad, although none quite as hideous as the first. There were also shirts in exactly the colours guaranteed to make him look sallow and cut to make him look fat. Jaime tried them all on, modelling each for Brienne, and tried not to grin as his wench struggled to find tactful ways to tell him he looked terrible.

“Are there … maybe other shops?” she finally said.

Jaime sat down on the bench beside her and captured her hands. “Don’t you like any of them?”

“They’re … I’m sure they’re very nice. But I like your other clothes better. These … you don’t look like yourself.”

“Why wench, are you telling me that the prettiest man in the Seven Kingdoms looks better in clothes that suit him than clothes that don’t?”

Brienne’s mouth fell open and she stared at him. “You … this is all on purpose?”

“I had to promise Alyn I wouldn’t dare buy anything before he’d agree to help me, but yes. I have a lifetime’s experience and the benefit of a lot of expert advice to know just exactly what to wear to look my best, because it’s my job. You don’t, and you don’t have to if you don’t want to, because it isn’t_ your _job. But please stop thinking that unflattering clothes mean you have an unflatterable body.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Now. Alyn also has a pair of jeans for you to try on while I make myself look presentable again, and I’d really like it if you’d at least see if they fit.”

Jaime was dressed in his own clothes again and Alyn had whisked everything away with a look of relief before Jaime heard Brienne clearing her throat inside the changing cubicle. “Um. They don’t fit.”

Jaime seriously doubted that, knowing Alyn. “Can I see?”

A long pause, and then the lock slid back and Brienne stepped out, gaze firmly on the floor. Alyn had found her a high-waisted pair that were probably meant to be full-length on someone shorter, but reached mid-calf on Brienne when turned up, as they were. The waist needed a stitch or two, but they fit snugly over her hips and rear and then flatteringly loosely the rest of the way.

“They’re too short,” Brienne said, sounding as if she was about to cry. “I’m too tall.”

“That’s how long they’re supposed to be,” Alyn said quickly from behind Jaime. “For warmer weather. I’m sorry, I should have warned you. I have exactly that cut in what will be full-length for you, but given the season I thought you’d want something you could be comfortable in now.”

Brienne looked up, brilliant blue eyes wary. “Really?”

“Really,” Alyn said. “And it’s more versatile, you don’t need different pairs for flats or heels. But how’s the fit, let me see.” Brienne raised her arms as Alyn tugged at the waistband, pinched it, and cocked his head. “Just needs to come in a smidgen. Are they comfortable?”

Brienne nodded. “Yes.”

“They look pretty good,” Jaime said. “Do you want to get them?”

Brienne looked down at herself. “You like them?”

“Do _you_ like them, is the question.”

She turned and stole a glance in the mirror. “I … think I do.” She looked back at him. “I mean, they’re jeans, right? I’m not going to be ridiculous wearing jeans.”

“Oh, wench.” He put his arms around her and drew her close. “No. You’re not ridiculous. I promise.”

“Then I think I’ll buy them.”

“Just let me pin the waist,” Alyn said, and Jaime stepped back to let him do so. “I can have these altered by this afternoon – usual address, Jaime?”

“Usual address, usual account,” Jaime confirmed. “Anything you think I should look at while I’m hear?”

Alyn shook his head. “New stock next week, though. I’ll call your assistant if there’s anything I think you’d particularly like. There.” He studied Brienne. “Can I make a suggestion?” Jaime shot him a warning look, but Brienne nodded. “That over-size T-shirt isn’t doing you any favours. I get that you’re trying to hide your shoulders, but it doesn’t. Try something where the sleeves start here –” He touched her bicep. “And more fitted.”

“I think one shopping expedition a day is enough,” Jaime said, and Brienne shot him a grateful look. “Come on, wench. Stannis ate my lunch _and_ his, so you’d better carry me off to the nearest Lysene restaurant before I swoon into your arms.”


	91. Jaime XXXVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime have very different ideas of excess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was a little short, so here's another!

Brienne went to see her shrink again the next day. Jaime made sure to be waiting outside with Peck and the car when she came out, red-eyed and a bit pale but not actually crying, and able to manage a smile when she saw him. She was quiet and thoughtful on the way home, though, so Jaime just steered her to the couch and found a rom-com on Weirflix and sat stroking her hair.

“When did you stop thinking I was ugly?” she asked suddenly. 

“The first time I saw you fight.”

“Don’t lie, not about this. Please.”

“I’m not. I noticed your eyes, that first night, have I told you that?” He ran his fingers through the soft strands of her hair. “And then that rehearsal, when we changed the choreography, you know you change completely when you have a blade in your hand and a real opponent, so confident and graceful.”

“But you still saw me as ugly. That’s what you said, with the Brave Companions. Right after you shouted _sapphires. _That I was ugly enough without another broken nose.”

“Shit, did I? I’m sorry. I don’t …” Had he? A lot of what had happened after Hoat broke his hand was blurry. _Except for those parts that are still agonisingly clear, especially at three in the morning._ “I was pretty busy dying at the time.”

She raised her head from his shoulder. “I’m not angry about it, Jaime. They were probably going to rape me, and possibly kick me to death, and you saved me, and they beat you for it. I don’t need you to have done it because you were feverish enough to think I was pretty.” 

“I don’t think I meant it.”

“It’s alright if you did. I mean, how I look isn’t going to change, even if I can change how I feel about it a bit.” Brienne smiled. “I thought you were horrible when we met, after all.”

“Wench.” She really was irresistible when she smiled, so Jaime kissed her. “When did you stop thinking I was horrible?”

“Bit by bit.” She put her head back down on his shoulder. “Before you told me about Aerys. You kept being … not what I thought you were. Even before the Brave Companions.”

“Well, maybe it was bit by bit for me, too. But you know, in the hospital in Moat Cailin, your stubborn freckled face was the one I wanted to see.” He kissed the top of her head and went back to running his fingers through her hair. “You don’t look like the Arianne Martells of the world, and I wouldn’t lie to you and say I thought you did. But they don’t look like _you_, either, and I prefer how you look. You’re never going to be some delicate little minx, but you’re _gorgeous_. Yes, you have crooked teeth – which are actually something you can do something about, if it bothers you – and your nose has a boxer’s bump. You also have a magnificent body, which you generally manage to disguise by being insanely self-conscious about it, and eyes so beautiful I couldn’t help noticing even when I was resenting the hell out of you on that first night in the north.” He smiled. “And I actually like your freckles, you know.”

“The maester made me look in a mirror, today,” Brienne said to his chest. “You know, my freckles … they’re not as bad as I remembered.” She paused. “Do you think I should get a haircut?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you can shave your head or grow your hair to your waist, you know that,” Jaime said. “But, you know, you could get a trim and have it styled and then maybe you might feel that your hair isn’t as bad as you remembered, either.”

“That’s what she said, today,” Brienne said. “I just … I hate those places where everyone is perfect. I feel out of place.”

“We can find somewhere that isn’t like that, then.” Jaime rubbed her back. “I know about a thousand hair and makeup artists, I’m fairly sure that at least one of them will have an idea.”

“And do you think I need to have my teeth straightened?”

“Wench, as I keep saying, if you want to never get another haircut and spend the rest of your life in whatever you feel like wearing and do absolutely nothing to your teeth, I will be perfectly happy, so long as you’re doing it because it makes _you_ happy and not because you’ve got that stupid Septa’s voice in your head. I mean, if the best fun I could imagine on a film set was playing a villain, would you mind?”

Brienne raised her head. “No. But it isn’t. You hate it.”

“So.” Jaime kissed her cheek. “I think you should ask your shrink about your teeth, and I think you should decide to do what makes you happy.”

“I am happy.” Brienne drew back a little, expression solemn. “Being with you makes me happy. None of this is … it’s not because I’m not _happy_. Please don’t think that.”

“I don’t, I promise you I don’t,” Jaime assured her. “Any more than I keep going to Luwin because I’m not happy. But it turns out that just being happy and being in love doesn’t fix everything else in your life, whatever the movies say.”

Brienne smiled, and leaned in to kiss him. “Jaime Lannister, look at you, realising the difference between movies and reality.”

He chuckled against her lips. “Don’t get used to it. I plan for our honeymoon to be every romantic cliché known to humanity.”

“Fake dating?” Brienne teased.

“That one would be hard to pull off with the whole _being married_ thing. But we will definitely be dancing by the light of the full moon while a string quartet serenades us and attractive children shower us with rose petals.” He paused. “Sorry. Some other sort of petal.”

“It can be roses,” Brienne said. “I did used to like them. Maybe I can like them again.”

“Shall I buy you two dozen every day so you have new, better memories?”

She laughed. “That seems excessive.”

“Excessive would be three dozen every day,” he said.

“Jaime …”

“How about one dozen a day or two dozen every two days?”

“Jaime.”

“Three dozen every _four_ days?”

“Jaime!” Brienne lost the battle with laughter.

He grinned at her. “Just a moment, I need to text Peck.”

Brienne plucked the phone from his hand. “You may give me _one_ dozen roses _once_ a week. And it doesn’t count if you make Peck buy them, because then it’s really _Peck_ giving me roses.”

“Mean wench,” Jaime said cheerfully.

“Impossible man,” Brienne said fondly, and put her head back down on his shoulder to watch the rest of the movie.


	92. Ravens VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of overlapping conversations on Jaime’s phone

08:22 Me: _hey need recommendation for hairdresser_

08:32 Jack H: _a man has a new role?_

08:33 Me: _4 my wife. She doesn’t want 2 go somewhere high fashion_

08:33 Me: _but has 2 b good._

08:34 Me: _also if they say 1 bad thing abot her looks I will end them fare warning_

08:55 Jack H: _a man has seen a woman on one thousand eyes and one. A woman would benefit from layers and feathering._

08:56 Me: _her hair is fine as it is. _

08:56 Me: _she just wants a trum. _

08:57 Me: _can you recommend sumwhere or not_

08:58 Me: _KL wd b best_

09:13 Jack H: _a man was attempting to subtly indicate that he would like to cut a woman’s hair_

09:15 Jack H: _a man forgot he was in Westeros for a moment_

09:17 Me: _ha ha. Do you have a salon? I thout you were still in films?_

09:37 Jack H: _a man is in Rosby painting plague sores on extras. _

09:43 Me: _oh that spring sickenss thing? How’s it going_

09:55 Jack H: _a man longs for death_

09:56 Jack H: _a man could cut a woman’s hair in the hair and makeup trailer after seven in the evening and before midnight on any day, with advance notice._

09:58 Me: _k I’ll check with Brienne and get back to you_

11:22 Me: _can you do 2morrow? Say 7.30?_

11:32 Jack H: _a man will be waiting._

* * *

08:35 Me: _hey arainne can I ask you sumthing?_

08:46 Shoes: _I am not giving you details of the next season, Jaime_

08:47 Me: _not about bedding and the city at all._

08:48 Me: _want 2 buy Brienne sumthing as a surprise_

08:49 Me: _but don’t know how 2 get size right_

09:23 Shoes: _buying clothes for a woman as a surprise is never a good idea_

09:24 Shoes: _try a gift voucher_

09:38 Me: _she hates shopping_

10:22 Shoes: _the problem is if you get the size wrong she will feel like you don’t pay attention to her body_

10:24 Me: _r you sure_

10:49 Shoes: _ask my ex_

10:50 Me: _k no clothes. Any suggestion? Sumthing to make her feel beautiful._

11:32 Shoes: _jewellery, perfume, oral sex_

11:33 Me: _k will do_

* * *

08:31 Me: _need address of florist_

08:31 Peck: _on my way_

08:32 Me: _no need 2 buy myself. Is there 1 close? Do I have an account_

08:33 Peck: _I will pick you up in 5_

* * *

10:15 Me: _wench is your favorutie colour still blue?_

10:23 Wife: _Yes, why?_

10:24 Me: _I like to keep up. _

10:26 Me: _wat do you like better, sea air or flower gardens?_

10:32 Wife: _they’re both nice? _

10:33 Me: _how about cinnamon or apples?_

10:45 Wife: _cinnamon, why do I need to chose? They’re both nice._

10:48 Me: _no reason. Hey found sumwhere for your hair. _

10:49 Me: _well sum1. _

10:50 Me: _film guy, really good, can do it on set in Rosby in the evening_

10:51 Me: _when you like, today, tomorrow_

10:52 Me: _even Thursday tho I sort of hoped youd come to Dragonstone_

10:59 Wife: _of course I will come to Dragonstone if you want, Jaime. How about tomorrow? _

11:01 Me: _k will set it up. _

11:03 Me: _how r you?_

11:04 Wife: _Good, Jaime. how are you? _

11:05 Me: _good. C you at home soon?_

11:11 Wife: _Yes. Love you._

11:12 Me: _here’s looking at you kid_

* * *

09:11 Me: _need shae’s number_

09:22 Little Bro: _Brother mine, if u hit on my girl I will be angry 4 2 reasons_

09:23 Me: _no need her to do sum shopping 4 me_

09:38 Little Bro: _don’t u have Peck 4 that? _

09:42 Me: _SHOPPING. Shea type_

09:52 Little Bro: _brb need brain bleach stat_

09:55 Little Bro: _sent u her number_

09:56 Me: _thx bro_

10:02 Me: _cloaking is still off tho_

10:27 Little Bro: _What if its smaller?_

10:31 Me: _four people small?_

10:59 Little Bro: _Bit larger_

11:03 Me: _B is not ok with it_

11:15 Little Bro: _I cd talk 2 her_

11:17 Me: _no relly not ok, relly upset_

11:46 Little Bro: _k. _

11:48 Me: _I mean it we will elipe and you will not be invited if you pusg this_

11:53 Little Bro: _can I still throw a big party on Tarth without u or B?_

11:57 Me: _yes_

12:32 Little Bro: _k. _

* * *

09:32 Me: _she really freaked out. _

09:45 Goodfather: _I thought she might. I should have told you sooner but I didn’t think your brother would actually pull it off. How is she?_

09:46 Me: _ok_ _I think. Got her 2 C a shrink. _

09:47 Me: _I think may b it helping? She is talking about sum stuff. _

09:47 Me: _2 me I mean not just 2 the shrink._

09:48 Me: _I am taking care of her don’t worry_

09:55 Goodfather: _I don’t. I know you will. _

09:56 Me: _and I told tyrion it was off. We’ll do sumthing small._

10:39 Me: _I was going to buy Brienne sum perfume but she is not helpful about what she likes_

10:40 Me: _do you know?_

10:58 Goodfather: _It doesn’t really matter_

10:59 Me: _I don’t want her to haet it_

11:22 Goodfather: _son, I didn’t have a lot of time with Brienne’s mum, but I had enough time to know that she will like it because you picked it for her and every time she puts it on she will remember that you went to the trouble_

11:32 Me: _how do you know_

11:48 Goodfather: _because I was the recipient of an aftershave that smells like feet and I still buy it_

11:52 Me: _I’m really sorry about your wife._

* * *

11:50 Me: _can I ask you for a favour? For brienne?_

12:15 Jeyne Dove: _yes what do u need?_

12:16 Me: _next time you r in KL could you take her for a gril’s night?_

12:18 Jeyne Dove: _what sort of thing?_

12:19 Me: _just normal. Drinks. Like friends._

12:43 Jeyne Dove: _sure I will call you when I’m heade din next. _

12:45 Me: _also what perfume shd I get her?_

12:48 Jeyne Dove: _something you’re going to want to smell on her_

12:51 Me: _k_

* * *

10:32 Me: _how script going_

10:40 Pegleg: _do you mind introducing your dragon queen as the climax of act 1?_

10:41 Me: _if it works, I’m fine_

10:42 Pegleg: _then it’s going well and you should have a draft by the time you get back from your honeymoon_

10:43 Me: _we r going to pentos then volantis_

10:59 Pegleg: _for the waters?_

11:15 Me: _I knew I liked you_

* * *

10:22 Me: _I know you haet me but this is about Brienne_

10:35 Cat Claw:_ Who is this?_

10:36 Me: _Jaime Lannister_

10:42 Cat Claw: _What do you want?_

10:43 Me: _can you call Brienne and just say hi_

10:44 Cat Claw: _what’s wrong is she alright_

10:46 Me: _Nothing wrong she is ok just could use nice words_

10:48 Cat Claw: _will call. Girls too. _

10:51 Me: _Thx _


	93. Brienne XXXIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's plans don't go quite right. NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am super sorry about the long delay. I have had technical problems and have been unable to post.

Jaime met her at the door of his apartment with a huge bunch of winter roses. Brienne took them, wondering numbly why the sight and smell of them didn’t start her heart racing and her hands sweating –

_Winter _roses, pale blue as frost, their faint scent as spicy as it was sweet. Brienne buried her face in the bouquet and breathed deeply. “Jaime. They’re beautiful.”

He smiled smugly at her. “I thought you’d like them. I didn’t have a vase big enough, so I bought –” He gestured at the dining table and Brienne turned to see a new vase, large and square, a deep blue glass that would set off the winter roses perfectly, its base wreathed in dolphins leaping over waves.

“Jaime.”

“They’ll be alright for a while yet, if you want to hold them, though.”

“Jaime …”

“I have a couple of other things for you, too, but you don’t need to put the roses down first.”

“Jaime!” Brienne said as sternly as she could with an armload of incredibly expensive wintergarden flowers. “I need to put these in water, so they last.”

“I can get you more,” Jaime said, as if that was a perfectly reasonable thing to say about what were probably the most pricey flowers in Westeros.

“I’ll put these in water,” Brienne said, instead of _that’s ridiculous, Jaime_, because being ridiculous had never once stopped Jaime in all the time she’d known him. She found the vase already had water in it, so she untied the ribbon around the bouquet of roses and stripped the cellophane and put them in the vase – where they looked absurdly good, because _of course_ Jaime had gone and bought a vase to just perfectly match a single bouquet of flowers. “Thank you, Jaime. They’re beautiful. They’re perfect.”

Jaime wrapped his arm around her waist and leaned up to press his lips to her cheek. “Good.”

“Is this why you begged off our run this morning? To buy flowers?”

She felt him grin against her skin. “Flowers and other things.”

“Jaime?” She turned to look at him. “What have you done?” _How many horses do you own now?_

“Come and sit down.” He tugged her towards the couch.

Brienne followed. “What have you done, Jaime?”

“Nothing terrible.” He drew her down to sit beside him. “I haven’t hired anyone, or bought anything that can’t be returned – although I want to talk to you about a piece of land later – but that can wait.”

Brienne blinked at him. “Land?”

“Later,” Jaime said. He freed one of her hands and leaned over to pick up a parcel wrapped in blue paper from the coffee table – one of two, Brienne realised. He offered it to her. “This first.”

She took it, feeling the weight shift inside. “Jaime.”

“Just open it.”

She peeled the tape away carefully and folded back the paper to reveal a cardboard box, silver and white, embossed with a crest Brienne vaguely recognised as belonging to one of the high-end fashion houses. “Jaime …” Opening the box, she drew out a glass bottle complete with atomiser.

“I tried to find one that smelled like the sea,” Jaime said. “See if you like it.” Brienne sniffed at the bottle, and Jaime chuckled, and took it from her. “Hand,” he said, and when she held out her arm, sprayed her wrist. “There.”

It wasn’t _exactly_ like the sea – with a gun to her head, Brienne would have been forced to admit it wasn’t anything like the sea at all. It was a fresh scent, though, a little citrusy, with something in it that reminded Brienne of the Rainwood after a storm. “It’s nice.”

“If you don’t like it, just say,” Jaime said.

“No, I like it.” Brienne sniffed at her wrist. “You’re not saying I normally smell terrible, I presume?”

Jaime grinned. “Given how often and enthusiastically I bury my face between your legs, I think you can safely assume that’s not what I’m saying, no.”

Brienne felt her cheeks scald. “Jaime!”

His smile got wider, and certainly more smug. “Shall I give you a demonstration to remind you? Or would you like your other present first?”

“Jaime.”

He raised himself up on his elbow to lean over her, capturing her lips with his. “You taste delicious,” he whispered against her mouth. “Every inch of you tastes delicious.”

“Jaime …” It came out as a moan as his hand crept under her T-shirt and his fingers traced over her skin.

His lips moved from hers, slipping over her jaw, down her neck, back up to her ear. “I do have one more present for you, and I’d like to give it to you before I take you to bed,” he whispered. “Because I want you to wear it and nothing else while I make you scream my name.”

“Jaime!”

He chuckled. “Oh, I will make you scream, wench. If I don’t get at least one more noise complaint today, I’ll consider myself a failure.” His hand ran up her leg, ghosted over the seam of her jeans. “Do you want your present?”

“I want –” Brienne’s breath caught in her throat and her back arched, seeking more than that gentle, teasing contact, _needing _it. “Jaime.”

“Alright, alright, I’ve got you,” Jaime whispered against her neck, and his touch strengthened to exactly the right pressure. Brienne gave a sob of relief as the jolts of pleasure shooting through her settled into a steady, building heat. “Good? Good?”

“Jaime, Jaime, Jaime …” The tingling warmth was growing, growing slowly but that was good, it was perfect. Jaime slipped his right arm around her back and held her close as he rubbed her firmly through her jeans, kissed her cheek and her jaw and her lips and murmured that he loved her and he wanted her and she should just relax and let him take care of her. As always, his hands and his mouth made it impossible for her to remember that she was too tall or too big or too plain because he was whispering breathlessly that she was perfect, _so fucking hot, Brienne, so sexy, perfect, perfect_ and she was, she was, she was –

“Jaime!” she gasped, and he pressed harder, knowing just what she needed and she came in long shuddering waves, moaning against his mouth as he kissed her and stroked her gently through her climax until she was limp and boneless in his arms. She could feel him hard against her thigh and summoned her scattered senses. “Do you – what do you want?”

“This,” he said, his arms tightening around her. “Just this, Brienne, this is what I want. Just relax.”

“Mmm,” she said, and curled against him, warm and safe and loved and wanted. “It feels so good. When you hold me.”

Jaime chuckled. “That’s lucky, since I enjoy it so much.”

“Sometimes I wish we never had to leave the apartment.”

“Sometimes I wish we never had to leave the bedroom,” Jaime said, “but life’s unfair. But if we build a house at Dreamfyre Point, I fully intend to lock us both inside for a month once it’s finished.”

“Dreamfyre Point?”

“Mmm, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your dad says there’s a piece of land there we could buy to build on. It’s a bit isolated, so it would cost more, which might mean I have to do several potentially humiliating ads for the Essosi market.”

“It’s beautiful up there, though.”

“It is. And it’s not like anything is exactly _really_ isolated, on Tarth. So do you think it’s a good idea?”

“We should probably see it, first,” Brienne pointed out.

“There’s my practical wench.” Jaime kissed her cheek. “And find an architect to look at it too. But in principle?”

She smiled. “In principle, I’m in favour.”

“Do you think we should move, here as well, I mean?”

Brienne raised her head a little so she could see his face. “Why? Have the neighbours –”

Jaime gave her a slightly smug grin. “No, no more noise complaints. I think they’ve realised the futility. But, you know.” He shrugged. “I bought this place years ago because I needed somewhere to live between movies and it was a good investment. It might be nice to find somewhere that would be a bit more, I don’t know – like your dad’s place. A real home. There are some nice houses on the Hill of Rhaenys, and some nice old apartment buildings on Visenya’s Hill that are less … sterile, I guess.”

“I don’t really mind,” Brienne said honestly. “I like this place, because it’s your place. But I’m not going to pine for it, if you want to move. So long as we keep this couch.”

Jaime smiled. “Absolutely, wench. Do you want your other present now?” 

Brienne raised her eyebrows. “Not that it will do any good, but I feel required to remind you that you don’t need to buy me things just because the sun rose over Essos this morning.” 

“I don’t?” Jaime looked comically bewildered, and Brienne couldn’t help laughing. He stretched, plucked the second gift-wrapped package from the coffee table, and placed it in her hands. “If you don’t like it, we can change it for … anything you want. So please don’t pretend you like it if you don’t.”

Brienne carefully unwrapped it, revealing a long velvet box. _A jewellery box_. “Jaime …” _I don’t wear jewellery. How has he never noticed that I don’t wear –_

Jaime interrupted her thoughts. “I know you don’t wear jewellery, as a rule. But you seem to like wearing your rings, and I thought …” He shrugged. “I thought you might like something nice for special occasions. I mean, for any occasion you want, really, but probably not the gym.” Warily, Brienne lifted the lid of the box and found herself staring at a single strand of pearls. Not huge, flashy pearls, but not tiny ones either. “You like things from the sea, so I thought you’d like to wear something from the sea.” Jaime touched the string of pearls. “These little gold beads, if you look really closely, they’re starfish.”

“Oh, Jaime.” The pearls blurred a little as Brienne’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s a beautiful necklace, but …”

“You don’t have to wear it, you don’t have to keep it, it’s fine,” Jaime said quickly. “But, you know. If you like it, you should absolutely wear it.”

“I’d look ridiculous.” _Like a sow in silk. _People would stare, and snigger, at the big ugly girl adorning herself with something so much more beautiful than she could ever even imagine being.

“That’s nonsense,” Jaime said robustly. “It’s a necklace, not a … a tutu or something.”

Brienne closed the box. “Nonsense or not, it’s how I’d feel.”

Jaime frowned a little. “I’m just saying, you don’t need to. You wouldn’t look ridiculous, and you don’t need to _feel_ ridiculous.”

“Yes, thank you.” Brienne put the box down on the coffee table. “Thank you for explaining my feelings to me, that’s a great help.”

“Now you’re actually _being_ ridiculous,” Jaime shot back. “What, you’re _mad_ at me now? For buying you something nice?”

“I didn’t ask you to!” Brienne snapped. “What, you want me to be _grateful_ to you for buying me something I don’t want?”

“That’s not what I …” Jaime raked his fingers through his hair. “Wench, I’m just trying to help.”

“Then you wouldn’t be trying to make me a laughingstock!” Brienne’s eyes burned and her throat felt hot and tight. “Me in a pearl necklace, you might as well put lipstick on a direwolf, or dress a sow up in a silk dress!” And Seven Hells, she was going to actually start crying and it was suddenly unbearable that Jaime know it. She bolted to her feet, evaded Jaime’s reach for her wrist, and fled to the bathroom as the first tears fell.

She snatched a towel from the rail and buried her face in it, trying to muffle her sobs. They were still too loud, echoing off the tiled walls, so she turned the shower on to full blast. _A sow in silk … _ _sow in silk …_ Septa Roelle had warned her, had tried to make sure she didn’t make a fool of herself. _Not that it made any difference_. Whatever she wore, Brienne had always been too tall, too big, too hideous, to avoid being anything but a joke.

It wasn’t wrong, to not want to be laughed at. Jaime didn’t understand, because no-one ever laughed at Jaime Lannister. Whatever they said about him – _Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, Man Without Honour_ – no-one had ever suggested that Jaime Lannister was a _joke_.

_Not like me. Not like big butch Brienne. _

_More a man than a woman, and not enough of either. _

“Brienne?” Jaime knocked on the bathroom door. “Brienne?”

Brienne took a deep breath. “There’s another bathroom,” she managed to get out between sobs.

“I don’t need to pee, Brienne. Let me in?” He paused, and then knocked again. “Brienne? I feel like you might be upset about something. Is there anything you need me to do?”

And then she was crying so hard she could barely breathe, sobbing so loudly she could hear herself over the cascading water in the shower no matter how hard she pressed the towel to her face.

“Brienne? I feel like breaking the door down would not be respecting your boundaries, but I also feel like it would not be supportive for me to just ignore the fact that you’re crying. I can go look it up. Or you can unlock the door.”

“I’m s-s-sorry,” Brienne gasped. “J-Jaime, I’m sorry.”

“Can you just let me in, Brienne?”

Brienne managed to get to her feet. She stumbled to the door and threw the latch. Jaime yanked the door open the moment the tumbler clicked, pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. “Alright, I’m here, I’m here.”

“Jaime, I’m s-s-sorry, I can’t, I d-d-don’t –”

“You don’t have to, it’s fine, you’re fine.” He drew her head down to his shoulder. “I’ll take the necklace back, or donate it to some charity, or throw it out the window, and you never have to look at it again. Alright?”

“Oh, Jaime.” She leaned into him, because he was strong enough to take her weight. “J-Jaime, I’m sorry, I d-don’t know why … ”

“Don’t be sorry, you’re just upset, I’m sorry, I thought it would help, Arianne said perfume and jewellery made women feel beautiful –”

Brienne raised her head and stared at him. “You t-talked to _Arianne Martell_ about me?”

“I just asked her what would be a good gift, that’s all,” Jaime said quickly. “But I should have thought. I didn’t think it would upset you this much, I just thought you might not like it, but not this.”

“I just – I j-just –” _A sow in silk,_ Septa Roelle had warned her. _No_. Maester Genna said it hadn’t been a warning, it hadn’t been advice, it had been cruel. _Whether she meant well or not is irrelevant, really_, Genna had said. _You were a child. _“I’d feel ridiculous.”

_What would you say to a little girl proud of her new dress?_

_What a nice dress,_ Brienne said to that long-lost seven-year-old who thought for all of one morning that she looked like a princess in a story. “Jaime.” Her voice shook uncontrollably, she was shaking from head to foot. “I – I –”

Jaime tightened his arms around her. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m sorry, I thought –”

“No,” Brienne interrupted, pressing her face against his neck. “Don’t be. It’s not – that’s not what – it was a really pretty dress.”

“Yes, it was,” Jaime said, as if she was making any sense at all.

“Maybe it didn’t fit quite right, maybe it didn’t suit me, but it was a pretty dress.”

He stroked her hair. “When you were a kid?” he asked, so, alright, maybe she was making sense to him. Brienne nodded. “I bet you looked adorable, even if it wasn’t quite the perfect dress for you. I bet you had that big happy smile that makes your eyes that soft shade of blue that should be impossible.”

“It’s a beautiful necklace, and you’re right, I love it, and all I can think is that people will look at it and look at me and think I’m too stupid to understand I’m too ugly to wear something so beautiful and I _hate_ that!” And Seven Hells, she was crying again no matter how much she tried to stop. 

Jaime held her tighter. “First of all, no-one would think that. Even the most horrible Raveneratti sniping at what people wear and how they look would never look at a little string of pearls like that and think _how dare she_. And sure, there will be grumkins on Ravengram saying cruel things, but that’s why I have Peck and you have Pia, right? Because the grumkins say horrible things regardless, they don’t have actual opinions, they just want to hurt someone. If I wear a T-shirt and jeans, I’m too lazy to make an effort. If I wear a suit, I’m burnishing my vanity. None of it’s real.”

Brienne took a deep breath and managed to hold back the next sob. “I know that. That’s not what I mean.”

“Alright. Well I absolutely guarantee you that none of the real people who you really know or might meet are going to think anything other than _what a nice necklace_.” He stroked her hair again, then rubbed her back. “And I know you keep worrying about looking _ridiculous_, but I promise you, I would tell you, alright? If you ask, I will always give you an honest answer.”

“Thank you.”

“And you can always just wear it at home, and enjoy it here, if you want.”

“Whenever I think about wearing pretty things, I remember Septa Roelle,” Brienne confessed. “Telling Dad I looked like a sow in silk.”

“And what does your shrink say about that?”

“To say something nice to myself whenever I think it.” Brienne sniffed. “I’m trying to.”

“Does it count if I say something nice?” Jaime asked. “Because the reason I bought that necklace, that one in particular, is because it made me think of you. Not just because of the ocean, but because it’s not overstated, it’s not fancy, but it is lovely, which is what you’re like when you spar. You’re not flashy, you’re not showing off, but when you move it’s so graceful it’s hard to believe.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “I think you should keep the necklace, and if you don’t want to wear it when we go out, wear it at home, and remember every time you put it on that it’s exactly like you, understated and elegant.”

“You do say the most –” _ridiculous things. _Brienne took a deep breath, remembering Maester Genna. _If a person compliments my appearance, I think they’re lying. _“Thank you,” she said instead. “Jaime, it’s a beautiful necklace, and I’m sorry I’m such a mess about it.”

“Wench, I am still well ahead on that front,” Jaime said ruefully. “Now. What I think is that we should order food, and fire up the bootleg copy of that new Yi Tish martial arts movie everyone’s talking about.”

“_Crouching Direwolf, Hidden Manticore_?” Brienne asked, and Jaime nodded. “How did you get a copy? It isn’t even released yet.”

“I know people,” Jaime said with his best mysterious air, and then ruined the effect by grinning at her. “At least, I know Varys, and Varys knows people. Should we get Yi Tish to stick with the theme?”

So they did.


	94. Jaime XXXVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man cuts a woman's hair.

Jaqen H'ghar gave Jaime a patient, disappointed look, and Jaime took his feet off the makeup counter guiltily. “Sorry.”

Jaqen tucked his longish hair, red on one side and white on the other, behind his ears, and turned back to where Brienne sat in the hairdressing chair, looking as if she was one deep breath away from bolting. “A man is used to it. Now, lovely lady, a man has been told a woman wishes to keep her hair long?”

Brienne nodded. “It’s easier to tie it back at the gym. And … you don’t need to flatter me. I – that is. You don’t need to flatter me.”

Jaqen touched her hair gently, lifting a strand and watching as it fell. “A man knows that a face is not a self. What shampoo and conditioner does a woman use?”

Brienne turned to Jaime and he supplied the brand.

“A woman will stop, and begin using something suited to her hair.” Jaqen walked around her, studying her from every angle. “A man recommends some layering, to add shape. A little less length at the top, as well.”

“Jaime?” Brienne’s voice was nervous. “What do you think?”

“I think the difference between a good haircut and a bad one is a few weeks regrowth,” Jaime said, just stopping himself from putting his feet up on the counter again. “And Jaqen’s the expert, so why not?”

“Alright,” Brienne said softly. Jaqen nodded, wheeled the basin up behind her, and tilted her chair back so he could wash her hair. “Um. I need something I can do myself, and I’m not – mostly I just comb it and let it dry.”

“A man understands, lovely lady,” Jaqen assured her, pouring shampoo into his palm and beginning to lather her hair.

Brienne still looked as if she was being prepared for a firing squad rather than a haircut, so Jaime dragged his chair a little closer. “Did you get back to Gendry about that armour?”

“Yes, he’s going to be at the Rosby tourney so he’ll measure me up there.”

“Are you going to enter?” Jaime asked.

“If Sandor says I’m ready, light class, of course.”

“Pod and Peck and Pia and I can be your squires,” Jaime said cheerfully. “Oh, I’ll have Sugar brought up from the stables and you can ride in triumphantly with us holding your banners.”

Brienne snorted. “Jaime, first of all, I don’t have a banner –”

Jaime dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “We’ll get you one. Several.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Tarth, Evenfall, and the Evenstar’s sigil.”

“Secondly, I don’t know how to ride.”

“Alright, slightly more of a problem,” Jaime acknowledged. “But it’s not super hard, you know, and Sugar is extremely accommodating and very gentle. Where do you keep your armour?”

“At Dad’s. It’s nothing fancy – I made it myself.”

“Would you _like_ something fancy?”

Brienne smiled as Jaqen tilted her upright again. “Jaime, I absolutely forbid you to buy me another present for at least a month.”

“Making a note,” Jaime said, and pretended to poke at his phone. “A month as in, this calendar month? Or four weeks?”

“Jaime …”

“I’m going with calendar month, which means I can buy you a new present in … six days.”

“Jaime!” Brienne’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he grinned at her.

“I could get you a horse, so we could go riding together once you learn.”

Brienne began to laugh helplessly. “You are impossible.”

“So my wife tells me.”

“A man asks a woman to hold still,” Jaqen said mildly, scissors poised. 

“Sorry,” Brienne said meekly.

Jaime watched as the Lorathi quickly and surely snipped away strands of Brienne’s soft fair hair, pausing every so often to study the result. It wasn’t long before he was setting the scissors down and brushing stray loose hairs from the shoulders of the cape that swathed her. “A man will style the lovely lady’s hair tonight, but a woman can do it as she usually does tomorrow.”

“Style?” Brienne touched her damp hair.

“If you don’t like it, wench, stick it in a ponytail,” Jaime said.

Brienne nodded, and submitted to Jaqen’s further ministrations with blow-dryer and curling tongs. When he was finished, he nodded in satisfaction, and turned the chair so Jaime could see her and Brienne could see herself in the mirror.

Her hair still brushed her shoulders, but Jaqen’s magic had made it fuller somehow, a better balance to her square jaw and broad shoulders, the shape broken up by a few gentle waves. It was no fashion-forward cut from the bleeding edge of style – Brienne would have looked perfectly in place at one of the Dragonpit’s multitude of cafés on a Sunday morning, or behind a desk in an office.

Brienne touched it tentatively. “It looks … like me. But nice.”

“A woman is pleased?”

She nodded. “Very pleased. Thank you.” Jaqen picked up his make-up kit, and Brienne went instantly from cautiously pleased to rigidly anxious. “No, I don’t, make-up looks terrible on me –”

“A woman will indulge a man,” Jaqen said calmly. “A woman can wipe it off in seconds, if she wishes.”

“Let him do it, Brienne,” Jaime suggested. “He’s right, it comes off in seconds, and it is his job.” When she nodded, he scooted his chair forward again and took Brienne’s hand as Jaqen began. She gripped it so tightly she might as well have been being tortured rather than having her face done. Jaime was relieved to see that Jaqen eschewed foundation, not trying to disguise Brienne’s freckles, not even applying concealer to the still-pink scar on Brienne’s cheek. He applied a little eyeliner, brushed mascara on her lashes and gloss on her lips, and stepped back. “He’s done,” Jaime told Brienne.

She opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. Her mouth opened a little. “Oh. I – did you do anything?”

Jaqen looked as smug as Jaqen ever looked _anything_, which in Jaime’s experience was _not very_. “A man knows his job.”

Leaning forward, Brienne stared at herself. Jaime leaned over her shoulder to kiss her cheek, and then met her gaze in the mirror. Jaqen had darkened her eyelashes a shade and emphasised her eyes and lips just enough to make them the focus of her face.

“I look just … like me,” Brienne said slowly. “But nicer.”

“A woman should always look like herself,” Jaqen said, packing up his makeup kit. “Unless on occasion she wishes to look like someone else, in which case, a man would be happy to oblige.” He picked up a notepad and a pencil and began to write. “A woman will switch to this shampoo and conditioner. And this deep conditioning treatment, once a week. A woman will also change her skin-care regime – a man is making recommendations – would a woman like information about the makeup a man used?”

“She would,” Jaime said before Brienne could speak. He kissed her cheek again and whispered, “You don’t need to _do_ anything with the information, wench.”

She was still staring at herself in the mirror as if stunned. “I don’t know how to put makeup on.”

“The weirnet is a surprisingly useful resource,” Jaqen said, writing. “As is Ravengram. And a man would be pleased to assist a woman, should he be in King’s Landing.” He tore the page from the notepad and held it out.

Brienne took it. “That’s very kind.”

The corner of Jaqen’s mouth turned up. “A man has a daughter, lovely lady. A few weeks ago, a man’s daughter not only did not object to eating her turnips, but asked for a second helping. Because, apparently, teachers had told a girl that vegetables made one big and strong, and a girl wished to grow up big and strong like a woman her friends were talking about at school.”

Brienne looked bewildered, and Jaime was careful not to smile. “He means you, Brienne.”

Jaqen nodded. “A man is correct.” His face remained solemn, but there was a hint of humour in his dark gaze. “When a woman is a parent, she will understand how far a parent will go to encourage a child to eat vegetables without several hours of negotiation.”

“Would you like a selfie?” Jaime offered. “I mean, with Brienne, not with me.”

Jaqen nodded. “A man could parlay a selfie into broccoli, or even spinach.”

In the end, it wasn’t a selfie – Jaime took the picture – but Jaqen posed with scissors poised, as if still cutting Brienne’s hair while Brienne smiled carefully at the camera. _A man is grateful_, Jaqen said, but Jaime made sure to pay him twice as much as he’d quoted once Brienne had gone out of the trailer to find Peck and the car.

The look on Brienne’s face as she stared at herself in the mirror was worth four times what he’d paid. _Like me. But nicer._

Jaime took out his phone as he left the hair and make-up trailer and texted _Spider_.

_How is project R going?_

Brienne was leaning against the car, talking to Peck, and Jaime could see immediately that she’d forgotten herself, as she all-too-rarely did: she stood tall and easy, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded in the way that emphasised her broad shoulders and that she avoided when she was aware of what she was doing.

Jaime leaned up to kiss her cheek. _Gods be good, if she starts wearing heels I’ll have to go up on the balls of my feet just to do that_, and alright, his cock was entirely too interested in the idea so he had to stop thinking about it, since Peck had pretty much endured as much bad celebrity behaviour this year as any assistant should have to, so Jaime didn’t want to end up fucking a woman in the back seat of his car on the way back to King’s Landing, even if that woman _was_ his wife. “We should go out to dinner, wench,” he said, instead of _please take your clothes off and undress me too while you’re at it_.

“Where?” Brienne asked.

“That new place in Fishmonger’s Yard, _Bluetooth’s_ the one that doesn’t deliver or take reservations,” Jaime said. He kissed her cheek again, because he was only human. “I know seafood isn’t fancy for you, but it is for me, and the reviews say the fried octopus is divine.”

“Alright,” Brienne said, but when they were in the car on the way back to King’s Landing, she turned to him and said, “Can we stop at home first?”

So, alright, Jaime calibrated his expectations to accommodate Brienne deciding once they were back in the apartment that it was too much trouble to go out again, and started running through take-away options and trying to decide whether they should rewatch a movie they both liked or pick a classic Brienne hadn’t yet seen like _His Girl Smith’s Day_. He’d fucked up with the pearl necklace, no two ways about it – if Brienne’s reaction hadn’t made it clear enough, Luwin’s raised eyebrows when Jaime had told him about it this afternoon had been extremely eloquent. _She just needs to know that all those fuckwits were wrong about her,_ Jaime had said, and had had the distinct feeling that it was only years of professionalism that kept Luwin from rolling his eyes. _Let’s talk about why you feel you could, and should, solve Brienne’s problems on her behalf._

Which led unpleasantly quickly to remembering his own voice telling Ulwyck Uller about Cersei that _I wanted to do whatever would help her_. Except he hadn’t been helping her, had he – and what she’d wanted from him had never been what truly would, for all her protestations of _if you love me, Jaime, you will, I need you, I need you to make it better …_

So, alright, he was apparently even more fucked up than he’d realised, and the last thing Brienne needed right now was to deal with it, so Jaime would keep his mouth shut in future, and if he was of the firm opinion that Brienne would benefit from an evening out instead of hiding herself in their apartment, he would keep that opinion to himself. 

To his pleased surprise, though, when they got home Brienne went into the bedroom and came out a few moments later wearing the jeans she’d got from _Estermonts. _“Do I … look alright?” she asked nervously.

“You look great,” Jaime said honestly. “Those jeans suit you. Can I make a suggestion, though?”

Brienne looked down at herself. “Yes, please.”

“Take your socks off. The sneakers will look better with that length of trousers without socks. Also, as I’ve mentioned, you have great ankles.”

She sat down, pulled off her shoes and then her socks, and began to put her shoes back on. “But the sneakers are alright? They don’t look stupid?”

Jaime sat down next to her. “They’re perfectly fine. Brienne … we don’t have to go out if you don’t want to. If you don’t feel like it.”

She gave him a small smile. “Well, I sort of don’t. But I also spent the whole drive to Rosby forcing myself not to ask Peck to turn the car around, and …” She touched her hair tentatively. “I like it? So I think I should make myself go.”

Jaime took her hand and kissed her cheek. “The very second you want to, we’ll come back home.”

When Peck drew up at the entrance to Fishmonger’s Yard and they got out, Jaime looked at Brienne’s braced shoulders and the way her gaze was firmly fixed on the pavement and half-expected her to say _let’s just get back in the car._

He wound his fingers through hers and asked quietly, “What do you need me to do?” 

Brienne gave him a sidelong glance and a small smile. “Holding my hand is good.”

“I can definitely do that.” He glanced around the old, cobblestone square. During the day, Fishmonger’s Yard still served its original historical purpose, crowded with stalls selling seafood from crab to cockles to cod. At night those stalls were packed away and the storefronts that had once housed fishmongers opened to reveal seafood restaurants. Some were tiny, exclusive eateries where reservations six months in advance were the norm; some were bright and cheerful cafés where you could get any sort of seafood so long as it was fried fish; some were intimate bistros with set menus and regular customers who the waitstaff knew by name. By the light of the paper lanterns strung across the square overhead, Jaime looked for _Bluetooth’s. _

“It’s over here,” he said, spotting it. “The queue isn’t _too_ bad.” Brienne clung to his hand as they joined the line of people waiting for a table_._ Jaime rubbed her thumb with his. “Do you think they’ll give you a merfolk discount?”

Brienne stared at him. “What?”

He raised their clasped hands and pressed his lips to her mermaid ring. “Professional courtesy among seafolk, or something. Do merfolk eat fish, though?”

“By some accounts, they have sharp teeth, like a shark, so probably,” Brienne said promptly.

Jaime grinned. “I’m glad you never told me that before, wench, my nightmares about them flopping up to your dad’s house to trip you with their fins would have been much worse if I’d known they had shark’s teeth. What about selkies?”

“Since they’re seals in the ocean and human on land, they probably do, too.”

“So you could get a selkie discount _and_ a merfolk discount.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Why would I get a selkie discount?”

“Your dad, I told you, I’m sure he’s at least part selkie.”

“Jaime, Dad is _not_ part selkie.”

“Are you sure?” He gave her his best look of earnest concern. “Have you searched his house for a sealskin?”

“Jaime,” Brienne said, and her tone was exasperated but her eyes were crinkled at the corners.

“Should I put a selkie in my movie, do you think? Your dad could play him.”

“Jaime, how can you have a selkie in a movie set nowhere near the sea?”

“The whole point of selkies is that they don’t have to stay in the sea,” Jaime pointed out reasonably, and Brienne began to laugh.

“You are impossible,” she declared, and leaned down to kiss him.

“Excuse me?” a woman’s voice said from beside them, and Brienne pulled away again. Jaime turned to see a young woman, an adolescent girl really, blinking at him nervously and clutching her phone.

_The price of celebrity, and celebrity is the price of my career._ Jaime gave her a practiced smile. “Hi. Did you want a selfie?”

The girl nodded. “Yes, please. With the Blue Knight.”

_Well, that’s _my_ ego kept in check. _Jaime turned to Brienne, feeling his smile getting a lot wider. “How about it, Blue Knight?”

Brienne blinked at him, looking completely taken aback. “Um.”

“How about I take it?” Jaime said to Brienne’s fan. “The angle will be better.”

She nodded, and handed over her phone. The photo app was already open, so Jaime herded the two women a little way over to the side so the dangling lanterns that were strung across Fishmonger’s Yard would provide a nice backdrop without foxing the light meter. “Say _selkie_,” he said cheerfully.

“Jaime …” Brienne said reproachfully, and he hit the button, catching her trying not to smile and for that instant completely forgetting that she was having her picture taken.

“Are there selkie eggs, do you think?” He took another. “Because that’s one way I could get back at Tyrion over that dragon egg.”

“Dragon egg?” the girl said.

“My brother fooled me into trying to hatch one, years ago,” Jaime told her. He grinned at her. “Don’t tell anyone, but I actually sat on it.” She gave an astonished laugh, Brienne murmured another _Jaime … _and he took three more pictures in quick succession and offered the phone back. “See if those are alright, or I’ll take a few more.”

The fan flipped through them, smiling. “They’re great. Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” Jaime said, and Brienne echoed him, almost inaudible. Jaime took Brienne’s hand again as the girl hurried away to re-join her friends or family and leaned up to kiss her cheek as they went back to their place in the queue.

“Why did she want a picture with _me_?” Brienne asked quietly.

“You should ask Pia for a mental-health friendly social-media summary,” Jaime said. “Peck says hashtag Brienne Blue Knight is still around. Ulwyck’s story gave it a boost, and that was just repeated this week, remember?” He squeezed her fingers as the queue shuffled forwards. “You’re slightly famous, except I imagine in a specific subset of women who like the idea of smiting things, where I suspect you’re _extremely_ famous.”

“Me,” she said flatly.

“Yes, wench, it turns out that fighting in tourneys since you were, what, sixteen? And doing a certain amount of heroing in real life will garner you a degree of admiration.”

“But –” She stopped as her phone squawked and dug it out of her pocket. “It’s Catelyn,” she said, looking at the screen.

“Take it,” Jaime said. “I’ll get us a table.”

Brienne nodded, raised the phone, and stepped away from the queue. _Is everything alright?_ Jaime heard her say, and then, _oh, good, no, it’s good to hear from you. How’s Arya?_

Jaime checked his own phone. _Spider_ had sent back _Patience is a virtue_, which made Jaime wonder if Varys was as clever as he was made out to be, to think that _patience_ was a quality Lannisters possessed at all. Peck had confirmed the seaplane to Dragonstone tomorrow, the flight at one in the afternoon to make sure they had plenty of time and any delay wouldn’t make Jaime late for Myrcella. Tyrion wanted to know if Jaime and Brienne would at least _consider_ coming to the non-cloaking party he was throwing on Tarth the week after next, which Jaime ignored. Shae had sent a string of emojis that Jaime didn’t understand and wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to understand. 

He’d reached the front of the queue before Brienne rejoined him. “Everything alright in Winterfell?”

She nodded, and slipped her hand in his again. “She just wanted to say hello. She said she and the kids are going to be on Tarth in a couple of weeks.”

“About that,” Jaime said. “Tyrion is converting the cloaking ceremony into a big, non-specific party. _Which_ we do not have to go to.” He squeezed her hand. “Unless you want to.”

“A party?” Brienne said faintly.

“Well, apparently arrangements were fairly well advanced before anyone let either of us in on the secret.”

One of the waitstaff, a lean young man with dark hair, approached them. “Table for two?”

“Yes, thank you,” Jaime said.

_Bluetooth’s_ was trying to thread the needle between fashionably casual and elegant enough to justify the prices on the menu. The lighting was stylishly dim, augmented by dangling paper lanterns that echoed the ones outside. The tables were metal, without tablecloths, but the chairs were comfortable and the napkins were linen, not paper. The piped music was definitely an Iron Islands sea shanty, but it wasn’t loud enough to make conversation difficult. The waiter led them to a small table, handed them menus, and asked if they’d like a drink.

“Just water for me,” Brienne said, and Jaime nodded.

He set down the menu. “What do you recommend?” he asked the waiter.

“Our fried octopus is very popular,” the young man said. “But I find the roast skate, and the grilled sardines to be equally good. We also have sailfish steak today, and sautéed sand lance.”

“Great, we’ll have those.”

The waiter blinked. “All of them?”

“All of them,” Jaime said.

“And a salad,” Brienne put in. “You do have salad?”

He nodded. “Green salad, Dornish, or seaweed?”

“Seaweed?” Jaime said.

Both Brienne and the waiter turned identical looks of amused tolerance on him. “It’s very nutritious,” Brienne said.

“Far more ecologically sound than lettuce,” the waiter put in.

Jaime looked from one to the other. “Is this the game of _what can we get the mainlander to eat_?”

Brienne’s lips twitched. “Possibly. But seaweed _is_ very nutritious. And if you soak it for long enough, it loses that slimy feel.”

“Eighteen hours,” the waiter said. “At least. We do thirty-six, here.”

“Then I’ll have the seaweed salad,” Brienne said. “But we’ll have a green salad as well. For the _mainlander_.”

“You don’t look like you’re Ironborn,” the waiter said, writing the order down.

“I’m not,” Brienne said. “I’m from Tarth.”

“Ah.” The waiter gave her a sympathetic look. “Never mind.”

“Never mind?” Jaime said once the waiter had headed toward the kitchen.

“Tarth and Dragonstone aren’t real islands, to the Ironborn,” Brienne said.

Jaime leaned back in his chair. “They’re in the middle of the ocean surrounded by water, how is that not a real island?”

“Well, we never made our living off piracy.” Brienne gave a small smile. “The opposite, really. So unlike the Sisters, or the Stepstones, or the Iron Islands, we’re mainlanders.”

“And do you really eat seaweed?”

She nodded. “Quite a lot, when I was growing up. Like oysters, it’s something you can make a meal of, without spending money.”

_Well, fuck_. He’d sort of gathered from his conversations with Selwyn that Tarth didn’t exactly have a high average income, but _seaweed_? His wench’s automatic objections to spending even moderate amounts of dragons on anything non-essential suddenly made a lot more sense. _Maybe Tyrion’s party will kick-start a tourism boom. Several hundred celebrities Ravengramming themselves eating seafood in front of beautiful scenery should get _some_ interest, anyway. _

Brienne’s lips twitched, and she reached over the table to put her hand over his. “Don’t look so mournful. I wasn’t scrambling over the rocks in rags, stuffing raw seaweed in my mouth to try and stave off hunger pangs. It was just like fishing, or having a vegetable garden. You don’t even blink at nettle salad, for that matter.”

“But _seaweed_,” Jaime said.

Her smile grew. “Personally I can’t imagine anyone actually swallowing Dornish snake sauce except at the point of starvation, but you eat it all the time. And I can’t imagine how hungry the person who first ate a dragon pepper must have been.”

“Fair point,” Jaime conceded, as their food arrived. 

It was all excellent, although in Jaime’s opinion, soaking had not _entirely_ removed the sliminess from the seaweed, and after taking two bites to demonstrate willingness and an open mind, he left that particular dish to Brienne. 

“So, this party,” Jaime said once they’d each sampled every dish. “I told Tyrion that he could go ahead, so long as he didn’t expect either of us to be there. But would you like to go? There’ll be a lot of people you know there, like the Starks, and your family. And since it wouldn’t be a cloaking, we could just park ourselves in an unobtrusive corner and talk to who we want to talk to and ignore everyone else.”

Brienne forked up a piece of octopus and chewed slowly. Jaime would have bet dragons that she was buying herself time to think. “Do you want to go?”

_No, of course not_. The words were on the tip of his tongue, an easy lie to make her feel better, because did what he want really matter, compared to what she needed? 

_Respect_, Luwin’s voice said in his memory. _Communication. Boundaries – including yours. _

“Yes,” he said, honestly. “I would. I like your family, and I like Tarth, and I like at least some of the family members Tyrion invited, like Addam. But I wouldn’t have a good time, if you were miserable.”

“Maybe you could go, and I could decide later if I wanted to?”

Jaime smiled. “That works. I hope you’ll come to Tarth anyway, though. Even if you spend the evening watching Sunspear Vice.”

Brienne smiled. “Of course.” She ate a piece of sautéed sand lance. “Did you want a big cloaking?”

“Not three hundred people big,” Jaime said. “But, you know. We talked about having it in the Evenfall Sept and having a party.” He put his hand over hers. “Which we don’t have to do, of course.”

“And do you _want_ me to wear a dress?”

Jaime squeezed her fingers. “I _want_ you to wear my cloak. I want to wear yours. The rest is irrelevant.”

Brienne nodded. She turned her hand over to hold his. “Do you mind if I keep thinking about it?”

“Of course not.” Jaime raised her hand to kiss her fingertips. “Wench. It’s like Lysene soup.” Brienne raised her eyebrows and Jaime smiled at her. “I prefer it far hotter than you like, but I’d rather have it milder than have it exactly as I want while you can’t eat.”

Brienne returned his smile. “Maybe I can get used to hot food,” she said. “I’m just not sure how quickly I can do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, Jaqen’s daughter is completely made up by me


	95. Brienne XL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragonstone.

Brienne unfolded herself from the seaplane seat. She ducked through the door, stepped down onto the pontoon and turned to make sure Jaime didn’t need any help.

He managed, with his left hand on the doorframe and bracing himself on the strut with his weaker right. Brienne stepped onto the Dragonstone dock, and Jaime followed her.

He checked his watch. “Well, we have … two hours to kill.”

“Do you want to see the citadel?” Brienne asked. “The Hall of the Stone Drum is supposed to be magnificent.”

Jaime glanced up at the looming citadel. “If we have time?”

_Oh, Jaime._ Brienne took his hand. “Or we could get a coffee. Look, there’s a café over there.”

Two hours would have been more than enough time to at least have a quick look at the citadel yard and the Tower of the Stone Drum, and probably plenty of time to tour the entire citadel if they skipped Aegon’s Garden. Brienne forbore from pointing that out, steered Jaime across the road and into the café, and ordered him herbal tea.

He grimaced at the first sip. “What _is_ this?”

“Something that isn’t going to make you even more wound up than you already are,” Brienne said. “You don’t have to drink it, but you’re having anything with caffeine over my dead body.”

“Mean nanny wench,” Jaime said cheerfully, but he drank the tea, and talked about Willas Tyrell’s latest ideas for the script of _Oathkeeper_, and he only checked his watch every five minutes, which was a significant improvement from the every two minutes he’d been checking it that morning.

At half-past-three her phone buzzed, and she silenced the alarm and gestured for the cheque. “Do you want me to walk you there? Or not?”

Jaime turned his empty teacup around on its saucer. “I’m … not sure?”

“How about if I walk you to the end of the block?” Brienne suggested. “Just to make sure you know where it is?”

He gave her a quick smile, open and relieved, and snatched the bill from the waiter. “I’m just not sure how Myrcella would take …”

“Jaime.” Brienne reached across the table to take his right hand, stroking her thumb across the back of his first two fingers where she knew he could feel it. “I’m an adult woman and I’m not entirely comfortable with my father’s … um, companionship. With his companion. So I do get how Myrcella might feel? And I’m fine with it?”

“I do want her to know about you, know you.” Jaime slipped his wallet out of his pocket with this left hand and thumbed his maestercard out as deftly as he’d been born lefthanded. He put the card on the cheque and handed it back to the waiter. “Just …”

Brienne squeezed his fingers. “Just not right now,” she said. “Which is fine. It’s alright, Jaime. The most important thing is what’s good for Myrcella.”

Dragonstone was bigger than, say, Evenfall, but it wasn’t very big, and it was only a few blocks from the café to the address of Myrcella’s therapist. Brienne kissed Jaime goodbye at the corner, watched to make sure he found the right building, and then went back to the café to wait for him. She had brought a book to while away the time, and was soon so engrossed in a new commentary on Balder’s _The Edge of the World_ that it wasn’t until someone said her name that she realised there was a figure standing beside her table.

She looked up to see Stannis Baratheon. “Miss Tarth,” he said again.

Brienne rose hurriedly to her feet and offered her hand. “Mr Baratheon. I’m sorry, I was miles away.”

He shook her hand, his grip firm but not making it a test of strength as many men seemed to need to do with Brienne. “Good book?”

“Yes.” If she’d been Jaime, Brienne would have had something funny, or at least vaguely intelligent, to say about the author’s argument that _The Edge of the World _had started as an effort to amuse the young Osric Stark. As usually, though, she was tongue-tied and clumsy.

“Are you waiting for Lannister?” Stannis asked, and when she nodded, “I’m waiting for Myrcella. Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not, please do.”

They both sat down and Brienne cast frantically around for something to say. “Have you lived on Dragonstone long?”

Stannis nodded. “Since I left home. Grew up in Storm’s End, of course, but I suppose you knew that.”

“Yes. I’m from Tarth, so I, um, know Storm’s End.”

“Pretty place, Tarth,” Stannis observed. _He’s trying to make conversation,_ Brienne realised, _and he’s only slightly better at it than I am._ If she’d thought about what Stannis Baratheon would be like at all, she’d assumed he’d be an older version of Renly, or a younger, more temperate Robert: all warm charm and easy japes. _He’s nothing like either of them._

“Yes, I miss it,” Brienne said. “Do you, um. Miss Storm’s End?”

“I don’t miss the winters,” Stannis said.

“Why Dragonstone?” Brienne asked. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking, you don’t have to answer –”

Stannis shook his head. “King’s Landing is no place to raise a child, and it doesn’t suit my wife. But I need to be close, for work.”

“Of course.” She remembered now that he was a film director, building a career working behind the camera instead of in front of it, as both his brothers had done. “Do you have a new film out? Coming out?”

“I’m signed up to a project next year. I wanted to stay close to home until Tommen and Myrcella are settled.”

“It must be difficult, with the travel. I mean, even with just Shireen.”

“Yes.” Stannis signalled the waiter. “Do you want a coffee, or tea or something?”

“Tea, thanks.”

He ordered tea and an espresso for himself, and gave Brienne the hint of a smile. “Selyse doesn’t approve of caffeine. Anyway, it is difficult. It used to be easier when she was little, because they just came with me to location. Now there’s school, and her friends, and hockey practice. I weirchat Shireen and Selyse twice a day when I’m away, but it’s not the same.”

“You could get them a tutor,” Brienne suggested. “And they could fly home on the weekends, for friends and sport.”

He gave her a considering look. “I could. Renly said you were a problem-solver.”

_That wasn’t the only thing Renly said about me_. Brienne looked down before the memory of Loras Tyrell’s words could show in her face. “Thank you for letting Jaime see Myrcella,” she said. “He – I know it’s complicated, but he’s not like people think. He’s not the tabloid headlines. He wants what’s best for them, we both do.”

“Myrcella wanted to see him, otherwise I wouldn’t have permitted it,” Stannis said bluntly.

“Jaime wouldn’t have wanted to, if she hadn’t,” Brienne said quickly.

“They might not be his, you know.” Stannis gave her a shrewd look. “Since it seems Cersei was quite generous with her time.”

“Why would she tell Jaime they were, though?” _To manipulate him_, Brienne realised as soon as the words were out of her mouth. _Which does sound like something Cersei Lannister would do._ “Do you think they might have been your brother’s, genetically as well I mean?”

Stannis shook his head. “There’s never been a blonde Baratheon, as far as we can count back. No, Robert had nothing to do with their conception.” He paused. “From what I gather, he had little and less to do with their raising, either. Too busy making the eight, I expect.”

“I don’t think,” Brienne said carefully, “that it was a very happy marriage.”

Stannis coughed, and Brienne realised that it was his version of a laugh. “No. I don’t think it was. Is yours?”

Brienne blinked. “Um. Yes?”

He gave her another shrewd look from beneath his this black brows. “It’s a personal question, I know, but if Myrcella wants Jaime in her life, if Tommen does, then I expect you will be as well. And those children have seen enough screaming arguments between a husband and wife for one lifetime.”

“I’m happy,” Brienne said. “Jaime says he’s happy, and I believe him. And we don’t always agree on everything, but we mostly work it out without raised voices.”

“What sort of things do you disagree about?”

_I’m being interviewed,_ Brienne realised. _For suitability to be allowed near the children. _And that would mean Jaime being allowed near the children, too, she had no doubt. “Sometimes he buys things that I don’t think are sensible. Like horses.” _Or pearl necklaces, _but there was no way Brienne was going to explain _that _to Stannis Baratheon. “And he doesn’t always realise that I don’t have a glass candle and that he needs to use words to tell me things. Or he’ll mention something in passing as an idea and a month later I’ll discover he’s gone ahead and done it without saying anything else. But I wouldn’t say we argue about it, it’s his money, after all.” She took a deep breath and stared fixedly at her teacup. “The thing we mostly had our worst disagreements about were when he didn’t … didn’t understand, I suppose, about how … how I look. But I’m trying to be better about it, so it’s not … it’s not like we were ever shouting at each other about it, either.”

Stannis gave his small smile. “Let me guess, he thinks that anyone who doesn’t find you attractive is both blind and foolish, and you think that _he’s_ blind and foolish for thinking it.”

Startled, Brienne raised her gaze to meet his. “How did you …?”

“I may have had that conversation with my own wife once or twice,” Stannis said. “She’s as tall as me, thin as a whip, and she has these ears …” He cupped his hands behind his own ears. “Which I thought were completely endearing from the moment I saw her, although it took me years to convince her that was the truth.”

“I suppose people who are good-looking and handsome don’t really understand what it’s like to be … not.”

Stannis coughed. “Careful, young lady, you’ll turn my head. It’s been a decade since anyone described me as handsome, and that was my wife after I’d finally gotten around to hanging the new curtains.”

“I doubt you were singled out at school, though.”

“No.” He paused, studying the inside of his empty cup. “You’ve met my daughter, Shireen, I think. So you know about her.”

“I only met her a couple of times, and not for long, but I could tell she was kind and clever, and she seemed to be a very happy child.”

Stannis gave her the closest thing to an actual smile she’d seen yet. “She is kind, and she’s very clever, and sometimes I pray to gods I no longer believe in that she is and stays happy. But I was talking about how she looks.” He gestured to the side of his face. “The greyscale.”

“Does she get bullied for it?”

“A bit, I think. She doesn’t talk to me about it, or her mother. So I send her to the maester – the same as Myrcella’s, actually – once a week.”

Brienne nodded. “That’s probably a good idea. I mean, when I was growing up, it was just sort of something kids did and other kids coped with, _words are wind_ my dad always said.”

“Words might be wind, but wind can knock you down or sink your ship,” Stannis said. “You know, Shireen’s the reason I decided in the end to agree with Myrcella and at least meet Lannister.”

“He doesn’t like – he prefers Jaime,” Brienne said. “And I didn’t know he knew Shireen.”

“He doesn’t,” Stannis said. “After she was sick – when we were taking her home from the hospital – one of Baelish’s paparazzi got a picture of her. Robert was still in his heyday, I’d just had a picture nominated for an Iron Throne, we were newsworthy, I suppose. Baelish put it on the front page of all his papers.”

“That’s awful,” Brienne said.

“We kept Shireen from seeing it. Robert called – drunk – and ranted about what a monster Baelish was and ended up blurting out that it might have been more merciful if Shireen had died of the greyscale. Renly called to reassure me that Shireen could always become a Septa or a Silent Sister and her looks wouldn’t matter then.”

“He wouldn’t –” Brienne started. “Renly wouldn’t say that.” But she could hear Loras Tyrell’s voice. _He thinks she’s absurd. Grotesque. More a man than a woman, and not enough of either_.

“He meant well. Or at least he didn’t mean ill. Renly never _means_ ill.” Stannis shrugged. “And he was young. But anyway, your goodbrother Tyrion managed to winkle my number out of someone and called to say that he’d only been admitted to practice a few months earlier but he’d filed an injunction against Mockingbird Publications on Shireen’s behalf and if I said the word he’d pursue Baelish for damages.”

“That does sound exactly like Tyrion,” Brienne said. “He sued them for me, as well. Did you take him up on it?”

Stannis gave his small smile. “Of course. And Shireen will be able to study whatever she wants, for as long as she wants, and live quite comfortably while she does so. A good thing doesn’t wash out a bad one, but financial security is nothing to be sneered at.”

“I’ve never had money, until now,” Brienne confessed. “I’m sure there are people who think I’m with Jaime because he’s rich.”

“To quote the great Olenna Tyrell, a man doesn’t need to be rich for a woman to fall in love with him, but my goodness, it certainly helps.”

“She said that?”

“He character did, in _Lords Prefer Blondes. _Classic comedy, almost as good as _His Girl Smith’s Day._” Stannis picked up his empty cup and put it down again. “I always wanted to direct a comedy. Something like _The Fairmarket Story_.”

“That’s one of Jaime’s favourites,” Brienne said.

“Is it. So he has decent taste in films.”

“And his money really had nothing to do with it. If he hadn’t had a silver stag, if he lost all his money tomorrow and I had to go back into the Gold Cloaks to support us, I wouldn’t love him less.”

“It was a joke,” Stannis said, as grimly serious as a man who’d never made a joke in his life. “I didn’t just ask my brother about you. Davos Seaworth says you’re a sensible lass, which is high praise from him. Catelyn Tully has nothing but compliments. She even managed a grudging word in favour of Lannister – Jaime. I had Nymeria Sand run a background check on you, and the worst thing she found was a speeding ticket.”

“That was voided,” Brienne said quickly. “The officer’s equipment was faulty.”

“She didn’t turn that up, but doing one-twenty in a thirty-year-old hatchback did seem unlikely.” Stannis studied her. “If I’ve offended you, I won’t apologise. Those children are my responsibility.”

“I’m not offended,” Brienne assured him. “I’d do the same, in your position. I’m happy to consent to a police check, as well, if you want.”

“Funny you should mention that.” Stannis took an envelope from his inside pocket. “Do you need a pen?”

“I’ve got one.” Brienne dug it out of her bag. “I’m sure Jaime would agree as well, but … there are probably things that aren’t real, on his record.”

“Part of his _brand_, he said,” Stannis said.

Brienne took the form out of the envelope, scanned it to make sure it was the standard document, and signed. “I don’t pretend to understand publicity, but yes.”

“Doesn’t exactly make him a sterling role model.”

Brienne pushed the form back across the table sharply. “He saved my life, you know. And then they smashed his hand and he was out of his head with pain and fever and he still stopped them raping me, beating me. And that last fight he got into, it was because that Greyjoy with the boat was hurting a woman and Jaime wanted to stop him. So I don’t know what sort of _role model_ you want for Tommen and Myrcella but personally, if I had a child, I’d want them to grow up to be the sort of person who’d be that brave and that generous.”

“But would he do any of that for the children?”

“He hardly knew me and didn’t like me when he did it for _me_, so yes, he would,” Brienne snapped. “I know you don’t know us and I understand that the children matter more than anything, but –”

The bell over the door jingled and they both turned to see Jaime and Myrcella stepping inside.


	96. Jaime XXXVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has things to think about ...

_Just keep walking and talking_.

After the last hour of tears and shouting in her therapist’s office, Jaime wouldn’t have been surprised if Myrcella had declared she never wanted to see him again, but apparently no. _I always meet Uncle Stannis for hot chocolate after_, she’d said. _Aunt Selyse doesn’t approve of chocolate. You should come._

Somehow, Myrcella had been able to switch off her torrent of emotions the second she stepped out of the maester’s office, and was cheerfully chatting about some television show Jaime had never heard of while he was using every scrap of willpower he had to keep pace with her and manage to mutter vaguely appropriate responses.

And then they walked into the café and Brienne was sitting across from Stannis. She looked up and smiled and Jaime felt the world settle around him at the sight of her brilliant blue eyes.

“Myrcella, this is Brienne Tarth,” Stannis said, and Myrcella said hello politely and shook Brienne’s hand. “Do you want your hot chocolate? Or we can go straight home, if you’d rather.”

“Chocolate,” Myrcella said brightly.

“I might have some as well,” Brienne said. “And Jaime.”

“Four hot chocolates,” Stannis told the waiter as Jaime and Myrcella sat down, Jaime beside Brienne and Myrcella beside her uncle.

Brienne took Jaime’s hand beneath the table and laced her fingers through his. “Stannis was telling me he knows Tyrion.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jaime said. He smiled. “I’ve ceased to be surprised at who Tyrion knows. I’m sure he’d love to have you on his books.”

“I’m not sure I want to be that close to Tywin Lannister, no offense,” Stannis said.

Jaime laughed, and to his surprise Myrcella did as well. “Uncle Tywin doesn’t speak to Tyrion,” she explained. “Or Jaime, for that matter.”

“We don’t speak to him, either,” Jaime clarified. “We’re both huge disappointments to him as sons, which is fair, since he was a huge disappointment to us as a father.” 

“Lannister parenting leaves a lot to be desired,” Myrcella said a little tartly.

“Aunt Genna seems to have raised a well-adjusted brood,” Jaime pointed out. “And apart from cousin Lancel and his religious obsession, Kevan’s kids are all more-or-less normal. For Lannisters.”

“For Lannisters,” Myrcella agreed, and they shared a look of perfect understanding as the hot chocolates arrived.

“We didn’t have time to tour the citadel,” Brienne said to Stannis. “But I’d like to, some time. Which is better, the guided tour, or the self-guided one?”

“They’re both atrocious,” Stannis said bluntly. “It depends whether you want your inane wittering in person, or over headphones. I’ve got a book, if you’d like, better than either. Or if you … I mean, it’s always possible I might be free. The children should see it, too.”

“I’d like that,” Brienne said.

“Are you feeling better?” Myrcella asked Jaime in a low voice.

Startled, he nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry, I thought I’d … I didn’t want to worry you, or upset you.”

“You were like Tommen used to get, when Joffrey … when he was being Joffrey. When you feel like that, you should just go blank,” Myrcella advised matter-of-factly. “That’s what I do.”

Jaime took a careful sip of his hot chocolate. “I call it going away inside. And I try not to do it anymore. Have you told your maester about it, about going blank?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should,” Jaime suggested. “I told mine. He had some good advice.”

“You have a therapist, too?”

Jaime gave her a small smile. “Yes, it turns out that really terrible parenting is something you have to deal with at some point in your life, no matter how late you leave it.”

“Is Uncle Tywin that bad?” Myrcella asked. “Mama likes him, and he seems to like her.”

“He didn’t seem so bad when I was your age, not to me, because I didn’t argue with him. But he was always terrible to Tyrion. And in retrospect, there was stuff that wasn’t much good for either of us. It was really when I started to disagree with him that it got bad, for me.”

Myrcella gave him a steady look. “Maybe that’s why he and Mama get on. She was always a lot like that.”

“I know,” Jaime said ruefully.

“Are you?” she asked with such un-Lannister bluntness that for a moment she might have been entirely Baratheon in fact and not just in name.

“I don’t think so,” Jaime said. “I hope I’m not.”

“It would be nice,” Myrcella said. “If you weren’t.”

“Well, I’ll try not to be,” Jaime said. “And you tell me if you think I am, so I can stop. Alright?”

She gave a decisive nod. “Deal.”

“Jaime,” Brienne said quietly. “We’re on the last flight out, and unless we want to stay over, we need to head to the dock pretty soon.”

“If you stayed, you could come to dinner,” Myrcella said. “Couldn’t they, Uncle Stannis?”

“Maybe not this time,” Stannis said. “There’s a conversation to be had with Tommen first, I think.”

So they said their goodbyes – Jaime and Stannis having a short, silent tussle of wills over who was going to pay the bill, which Brienne resolved by plucking it from the table and paying it herself – and made their way back to the seaplane dock.

Brienne held his hand firmly as they waited for the seaplane to taxi across the bay towards them, and once they were seated inside and the plane had turned to take off again, she reached out and took it in both hers again. “I’m sorry dinner didn’t work out,” she said softly.

“It was probably a terrible idea,” Jaime said. “And I suspect I might not have coped all that well, either.” 

“What do you need?”

“You, wench.” Jaime gave her the best approximation of a smile he could manage. “And to get home, I think. It wasn’t … great. I’m mostly alright, but it wasn’t great.”

“Well, I’m here,” Brienne said, and held his hand throughout the short flight and then again in the car as Peck drove them back to his apartment building. The moment she had closed the door behind them she turned to Jaime and took him in her arms.

“Oh, wench.” He leaned his head on her shoulder, wrapped his arms around her and closed his eyes. “Wench.”

“I’m here.” She ran her fingers through his hair, her other arm tight around his waist.

“She’s so angry. She has the right to be, I should have … I don’t know, done something, something different, _something._”

“I think you probably did the best you could, in the circumstances.”

She was so strong Jaime could just lean into her and so gentle tears came to his eyes. “Myrcella doesn’t think so.”

Brienne cradled his head against her shoulder. “Teenagers aren’t always right.”

It made him smile. “When Tyrion was Myrcella’s age he was convinced there was a government conspiracy to conceal the existence of dragons.”

“There you go. As if any government could keep a secret that big for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Unless they were cat-sized dragons.” He turned his head to press his face against her neck. “Wench. How do you do that?”

Her fingers traced through his hair. “Do what?”

“Always make me feel better.” And he _was_ feeling better, but he allowed himself to lean against her for a little longer, letting himself relish the way she stroked his hair as delicately as if he was made of glass, as if he was fragile and she needed to be very careful so as not to break him. 

“The way you make me feel better, I suppose.” She pressed a kiss to his hair. “Do you want to order in, or should I cook something?”

Jaime tightened his arms around her waist. “Either of those is going to require moving, aren’t they?”

“Afraid so.”

“We could just go to bed.” That would be worth moving for, to be stretched out beside Brienne and pressed against her head to toe.

“I think you need proper food,” Brienne said. “I can put together some sort of Pentoshi from what we have in the fridge.”

Jaime chuckled. “Wench, you can put together a three-course-meal from what can be bought from a service station.” 

“Challenge accepted,” Brienne said calmly. “But not tonight. Come on. You can help me.”

So Jaime followed her into the kitchen and sliced onions and chopped vegetables and peeled garlic and then stood with his arms around Brienne’s waist and his chin on her shoulder and leaned against her back as she added ingredients to the frypan and stirred and tossed and occasionally paused to check on the pasta. They ate on the couch and watched the first episode of a new series called _Mantarys Doll_, which featured Alys Karstark in front of the camera instead of in the writer’s room for once, although her name came up with a writing credit at the end of the episode as well. It seemed to be about time-travel, which Jaime wasn’t sure about, but Alys clearly had a wicked sense of humour and keen comedic timing, so, alright, he’d probably watch the next episode at least.

“Feeling better?” Brienne asked softly as he switched the TV off.

“Much.” He leaned back against her. “I mean, Luwin said I shouldn’t expect too much, and I _thought_ I listened … I know I can’t just step into their lives and suddenly be their father, they _had_ a father, after all.” He sighed. “I wasn’t as ready for her to actually hate me as I should have been, though.”

Brienne put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer. “I was eavesdropping, a little bit,” she confessed. “I didn’t get the sense that she hated you. She suggested you stay for dinner, after all. I think she’s probably had a pretty torrid year, all-in-all, and I expect she’s angry and frustrated at the unfairness of it all, and as sorry as I am for Cersei and how unwell she’s been, I didn’t exactly get the impression she was … that Myrcella might have ever felt able to express any of that to her.”

“Seven Hells, no.” Jaime snorted at the thought. “_I_ wouldn’t have dared.” He turned a little so he could look up at her. “And I suppose she can’t in good conscience be angry with Stannis and Selyse.”

“Give her time,” Brienne advised. “I mean, you’re probably right, whatever relationship you have with them won’t be exactly like being a father, but it’s not like you can have them to live with you at the moment anyway, is it? What with location shoots and filming schedules.”

“Then I don’t know how Stannis is going to manage it,” Jaime said.

“He’s not working until next year,” Brienne said. “He and Selyse also have practice handling it already.”

“Unlike me,” Jaime said glumly.

“Unlike us,” Brienne corrected.

“And then there’s Joffrey …” Jaime closed his eyes. “I suppose I have some sort of responsibility there, too. Stannis … Stannis told me a couple of unsavoury things about him. More than I knew.”

“Whatever your responsibilities to Joffrey, he’ll be confined to Brightflame Hospital for a while, I expect, so you have time to work it out. And it’s not just you, remember? There’s Stannis and Renly, and your Aunt Genna, and Tyrion.”

“Mmm.” He wrapped his arm around her waist. “How are you so calm about all of this, wench? I consider myself to be doing extremely well to be staying the right side of screaming panic, even if only barely. And here you are, suddenly finding yourself married to a man with three natural children with his own cousin, one of whom seems to be a full-blow psychopath in quite possibly the Ramsay Snow mode and who is _definitely_ a murderer. And you just … make dinner. And tell me not to worry.”

Brienne chuckled a little. “Four years in law enforcement, remember? Your natural daughter yelling at you in a therapist’s office is barely a blip on the family dramometer.”

“And my natural son apparently murdered pets, almost certainly raped one of his girlfriends – which Robert got hushed up, I suspect with my father’s assistance – and murdered Ned Stark.”

“Yes, that is more than a blip, I’ll admit.” She leaned down to kiss his cheek. “But he’s in a hospital designed for people like that, so maybe he’ll get better from it.”

“Luwin says the chances vary. Brienne.”

“Mmm?”

He looked up at her again. “Is it something you want? Children?”

Brienne blinked. “I haven’t thought about it for a long time.”

“You like kids, though.”

“Yes, but …” She shrugged the shoulder Jaime wasn’t leaning on. “I used to think that I would, when I was young, have children, I mean.”

“Wench, you’re still young.”

She smiled. “Really young. Younger than Myrcella. But then I realised that I wasn’t exactly the pick of the litter, romantically, and I never wanted to be a single mother – Dad did his absolute best, but it was hard for him and I wouldn’t choose for a child to only have one parent.”

“No.” Jaime gave her a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t, either, although I can’t say my father did _his_ absolute best. More like his absolute worst. And now you’ve discovered you are, in fact, the pick of the romantic litter?” Brienne opened her mouth to, Jaime was quite sure, protest, and he cut her off. “Look at the evidence, wench. You’re married to what you called _the prettiest man in the Seven Kingdoms_ who is entirely convinced _he’s_ the lucky one.”

She snorted, but she didn’t argue. “Now, I guess, it’s a conversation we should have when there’s a bit less going on?”

“I feel like it would be selfish for me to want them,” Jaime confessed. “Like Joffrey, and Myrcella, and Tommen didn’t matter enough for me to be their father when it could have made a difference, and that they don’t matter enough to be enough for me now, either.”

“Probably something you should talk to Luwin about,” Brienne said.

“But if you’d be unhappy if we didn’t have kids …”

She smiled, and kissed his cheek again. “We have years and years to think about it, and talk about it, and decide about it.” Then she laughed, and leaned her head against his. “At least this isn’t one of those things I’ll come home one day to discover you’ve just charged ahead and gone and done.”

Jaime chuckled. “No. I feel you’d need to be involved in the process.” He paused. “Speaking of charging ahead, though …”

Brienne sighed. “Jaime. Another horse?”

“No, no, no,” he said quickly. “I haven’t even spent any money at all. I did speak to a realtor. Just, you know, so we could go and look at anything she thought was suitable.”

“That is actually a reasonable and moderate step.” Brienne sounded so surprised that Jaime was almost insulted, until he remembered Sugar, and Pia, and his efforts to buy a house in Evenfall. _Alright, that’s fair,_ he had to concede.

“And … there might be a place we could see tomorrow. A house, on the Hill of Rhaenys. I haven’t put a deposit down, or anything.” _Yet._

Brienne sighed. “Oh, Jaime. What am I going to do with you?”

“Take me to bed?” he suggested.

So she did. 


	97. Brienne XLI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne really should know better than to try and bargain with Jaime. After all, he is Tyrion's big brother ... slightly, and alas very briefly, NSFW

The house, it turned out, was an old townhouse not dissimilar to Tyrion’s – except for the décor, which was all wood panelling on the walls and ornately decorate light fixtures and taps. For all its many rooms, it felt small and dark. Brienne could tell that Jaime hated it on sight, which was a relief, because she certainly did.

“It’s not like we’re homeless,” she pointed out to him in the car on the way home. “Or even cramped. You can take your time and find somewhere perfect.”

Jaime smiled. “I was hoping to have somewhere for you to carry me over the threshold when we got back from Volantis,” he said a bit ruefully.

Brienne took his hand. “I’ll promise to carry you over the threshold whether we’re just back from our honeymoon or not, how about that?”

His smile grew. “Deal, wench. Have you thought more about the cloaking?”

“I have.” For several hours the previous night, in fact, staring at the ceiling long after Jaime had fallen asleep. “I think we should have more than just Dad and Tyrion. I think we should have enough people so you can invite Myrcella and Tommen and they won’t feel weird about it.” The guardedly hopeful look on Myrcella’s face when she suggested they stay to dinner had clinched it. “But I can’t do three hundred people. Not at the ceremony. Not people I don’t even know. But I think I can go to the party afterwards, at least … I think I can try.”

“The Starks,” Jaime said. “Jon and Ygritte?” Brienne nodded. “If I ask Willas, will you be alright with that?”

“Yes, of course,” Brienne said. She smiled. “He’s sent me so many ravens I almost feel like I know him.”

“Roslin and Edmure?”

“And Sandor. And Gendry.”

“Of course Gendry,” Jaime said. “Arthur Dayne?”

“Jaime, _Arthur Dayne?_”

Jaime shrugged. “He likes you. I thought you liked him.”

“I do, but he’s _Arthur Dayne_.”

He laughed. “And I’m _Jaime Lannister_,” he said, mimicking her shocked tone. “So, on my side, Shae of course, with Tyrion, and Bronn. Addam. Aunt Genna. Would it be weird of me to ask Luwin?” He gave her a sideways grin. “I mean, I do feel he deserves a certain amount of credit, along with that bartender, Elia.”

“Ellaria,” Brienne corrected. “What about Doran Martell? And Olenna Tyrell?”

“Now you sound like Tyrion. I thought we decided this _wouldn’t_ be a networking opportunity.”

“No, but I like Doran, at least, as much as I met him. And Olenna did give you the _Oathkeeper_ rights. It would be nice to invite her. Oh, Dad’s Alyssane, of course. And Gregor and Laena. And … if Stannis and Selyse are invited, we have to include Renly and Loras.”

“No we do not,” Jaime said instantly. “I won’t have them. Not after what …” He glanced towards Peck, driving the car. “That thing you mentioned.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Brienne said. “It was just … I mean, it was just a comment. And Loras didn’t know I was nearby.”

Jaime squeezed her hand. “I don’t care. I’ll tell Renly that Stannis is invited as Myrcella and Tommen’s guardian, not as my cousin’s goodbrother, and that I’m sure he’ll understand that we’re trying to keep the ceremony small. How about Joy? I know you don’t know her, but she’s been great.”

“Peck and Pia,” Brienne added. “And Pod, of course.”

“The Mance is playing the party, do you want to include him and Dalla?”

Brienne stared at him. “Mance Rayder is playing at the party?”

Jaime nodded. “And Barbrey Dustin. And Tyrion insisted on Big Bucket Wull.”

“Gods be good.” _So this is what my life is now, people I once couldn’t even afford to see in concert except from the nosebleed seats, playing at my party._

“How about Davos Seaworth?” Jaime asked.

“He’s a musician too?”

He laughed. “No, as a guest.”

“Oh. But Jaime, it’s almost all my friends, then, not yours.”

“Wench, we’ve talked about how I don’t have friends, remember?”

“Then you should invite people you’d like to be friends with,” Brienne said firmly. “Jeyne and Robb are part of the Starks, so they’ll already be there. What about Oswell and Arianne? You got on with them when we were in Lemonwood.”

Jaime grinned at her as Peck pulled the car into the garage of the apartment building. “Wench, you’re beginning to sound more and more like Tyrion. _Why don’t you _try_ to play with the other kids, Jaime?_”

“Well, why don’t you?” Peck parked, and Brienne got out of the car. She waited for Jaime to join her at the elevator, and took his hand. “I’ll invite one person for every one person you invite, how about that?”

“I’ll get the list from Tyrion,” Jaime said as the elevator arrived. “We can go through it together and see who counts for you and who counts for me.”

“Alright.”

“If we go over a day or so early, we can look at that piece of land, too.” He leaned up to kiss her cheek. “Maybe meet with an architect.”

“Can we afford all this? The honeymoon, a new house on Tarth, buying somewhere in King’s Landing …”

“I might have to abandon my principles and do some terrible ads in Essos,” Jaime said. The elevator reached their floor and he tugged her with him into the hall. “Or endorse a cologne.”

Brienne followed him to their door. “There were those things Pia said. That I could do, to make money.”

“Only if you want to.” There was a cardboard box by the door and Jaime let go of her hand to pick it up. “Honestly, half of everyone does Essosi ad campaigns. Barristan Selmy even did a couple. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen him try to feign enthusiasm for a mouthful of pickled snake. Oh, this is from Shae.” He tucked the box under his arm and unlocked the front door. “Have you had pickled snake?”

“I’ve had pickled eel. Is it similar?”

Jaime tossed the box on the dining table and grinned at her. “I’ve never had either, so I couldn’t tell you. I’m sure we could try it in Volantis, though. At one of those market stalls. In between buying overpriced souvenirs.”

Brienne shut the door behind them. “At a market stall it would be fried snake, or grilled, wouldn’t it?”

“Details,” Jaime said airily, stripping the sealing tape from the box. He flipped open the flaps and raised his eyebrows. “My, Shae’s outdone herself.”

“What do you mean?” Brienne started to take a step forward to look in the box herself and then froze when Jaime grinned and yanked out …

“Seven Hells!” She clapped her hands over her eyes, but too late. The image of the highly realistic – although bright purple – plastic phallus was seared on her mind.

Jaime guffawed. “There’s one here that’s fluorescent. It has a charger, so it probably actually glows in the dark.”

“Oh, gods be good.” Brienne turned her back on him for good measure. “Put them away. Put them away!”

“I think we should leave the ones that vibrate alone for now, I’d hate for you to be disappointed when you realise that _I_ don’t actually have eight speeds and five variations.”

“Jaime!” Brienne squawked.

“Relax, wench, I’m putting them away.” She heard footsteps, and then his arms closed around her waist. “All gone. Although given they were your idea in the first place …”

“It was that therapist’s idea, and I only mentioned it because she said communication was important, and why was it _purple?_” Jaime laughed like a loon and Brienne took her hands from her eyes in order to swat his arm. “Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not,” he protested.

“You are.”

“Not in a mean way. It’s just fairly adorable that you can spend four years as a law enforcement officer, work in close protection, save Arya and Sansa Stark’s lives, survive abduction by a gang of maniacs, save my life, save Willa Manderly’s life, and still get flustered at the sight of a vibrator.” He kissed her cheek, and then her lips. “And I don’t know why it’s purple. Is the colour the problem?”

“All of it’s the problem!”

“Alright, alight.” Jaime kissed her again. “I’ll shove them in the back of the wardrobe and we can pretend they’re not there. Come and sit down.” He steered her to the couch and pulled her down with him. “We were talking about getting that list from Tyrion. Let me text him.”

“Don’t tell him about the … the _things_!”

“I will not,” Jaime promised. “Partly to protect your maidenly modesty, and partly to prevent Tyrion from taking it as an invitation to share the details of his own sex life. Bronn, alas, is a lost cause on that front.” He dug out his phone and typed one-handed for a moment. “We should add Jaqen and his daughter, to the party at least. Then he’ll be there to do your hair and makeup. If you want, of course.”

Brienne leaned against him and thought about it. “I think maybe I do want, actually. He didn’t make me look all weird.”

“It’s like clothes.” Jaime kissed the top of her head. “Different things suit different people, and everything suits you better if it’s picked by a professional.”

“And the dress.” Brienne wrapped her arm around his waist. “You said there was a dress. I think … I’d like to at least see it? Before I decide?”

“Sure.” Jaime’s phone squawked and he checked it. “Tyrion’s weirmailing me the list. Do we have an upper limit on numbers?”

“Maybe on the number of people I don’t know?”

“Easy,” Jaime said. “I sort of feel like I should invite Lancel, if I’m inviting Addam, but that means inviting Gatehouse Ami and it’s even odds whether or not she’d be giving someone a blowjob in the back row of the sept before the ceremony was done.”

Brienne raised her head to stare at him. “You’re japing, aren’t you?”

“Only a little. I’ve also got a couple of cousins on my mother’s side, Daven and Damion, might fill out the Lannister side with people who are relatively normal.”

“Alright,” Brienne said. “How many is that?”

“About fifty.”

“Fifty?” She frowned. “How can it be fifty, it’s just people we know. Mostly me.”

“Probably more than fifty, counting the plus ones. How do you feel about including Margaery Tyrell? I know you don’t know her, but I’ve worked with her on a few films and if I ask Olenna and Willas …”

“Alright. She was nice, at the premiere, the _Hawk and Dove_ premiere. And you should ask Garlan, as well. You and he seemed to get on.”

“I can’t ask Garlan. If I do, Loras is the only one of the brothers not coming.”

“I told you, I don’t mind if Loras and Renly come.”

“And I told you, I do.” Jaime kissed the top of her head. “I know you don’t approve of me punching people on your behalf, wench, and it would quite ruin the day for me to have to fight the impulse from the moment I saw their stupid faces.”

“We could invite Garlan, and Loras and Renly, and have Loras and Renly seated with Lancel and Amerei,” Brienne suggested. “What’s that saying about two birds with one stone?”

Jaime began to laugh. “Wench.” He leaned down to kiss her soundly. “For such an innocent, you have a remarkably devious mind.”


	98. Ravens VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of overlapping messages ...

17: 04 Me: _bargained her up to 80_

17:15 Little Bro: _that works we can take out seating and say it’s capacity_

17:16 Me: _t’s not a publicty stunt little bro _

18:20 Little Bro: _it’s not ONLY a publicity stunt_

18:23 Me: _B is willin to see dress 2 can u tell shae_

19:10 Little Bro: _will do_

* * *

16:11 Me: _any news onproject R_

16:12 Spider: _call in next time you’re in the office_

16:12 Me: _thx_

* * *

10:22 Me: _hey how r you?_

10:24 Wife: _Fine Jaime, like I was fifteen minutes ago._

10:24 Me: _want 2 look at a house? And an apartment?_

10:26 Wife: _Later? I have homework before I see the maester._

10:26 Me: _homework?_

10:27 Wife: _Buying makeup. _

10:27 Me: _Want me 2 come?_

10:32 Wife: _Do you know about makeup?_

10:32 Me: _I know nothing but cd b moral support_

10:35 Wife: _that would be nice, thank you._

10:36 Me: _k meet you at Redwyn’s in 30?_

10:38 Wife: _see you there._

* * *

10:36 Me: _need_ _full_ _list of all makeup for B now_

10:40 Jack H: _a man will weirmail. _

10:41 Me: _thx. _

10:42 Me: _also you & yr daughter and plus one invited to cloaking on tarth will send details_

* * *

13:12 Goodfather: _I drove that architect up to Dreamfyre Point._

13:14 Me: _what did you think? _

13:21 Goodfather: _He wore city shoes._

13:22 Me: _k will look 4 sum1 else._

* * *

08:12 Me: _can you find me sumthing in essos? Ads? More money is better_

08:13 Joy: _mind what?_

08:13 Me: _so long as not 2 terrible no_

08:14 Joy: _k will look into it. while ur in volantis?_

08:16 Me: _no work then, after only_

08:17 Joy: _k_

* * *

09:02 Unknown Number: _Mr Lannister? I hope you don’t mind, Mrs Stark gave me your number. It’s Gendry Waters. _

09:03 Me: _Jaime. My name is Jaime._

09:03 Me: _an no I don’t mind. Is there a problem with he house?_

09:04 The Bull: _no no problem at all. Thank you again. it’s about your weirmail. The light armour?_

09:04 Me: _I know it’s npt yr thing but do you know sum1? _

09:06 The Bull: _it’s more the measurements. I haven’t had the chance to take them. Light is more forgiving than heavy but I still would need to know. _

09:07 Me: _if I cd get you those?_

09:10 The Bulls: _And the specifications. Stars and lions – do you have anything particular in mind?_

09:11 Me: _no ill leave it 2 you. _

09:11 Me: _just make it look good_

09:11 Me: _and keep her safe but that foes without saying_

* * *

10:43 Me: _have you heard of alys karstark_

11:13 Pegleg: _yes, worked with her on Oathkeeper 1.0_

11:14 Me: _is she ny good?_

11:15 Pegleg: _yes_

11:15 Me: _cd you get her 4 oathekeeper 2.0_

11:22 Pegleg: _maybe she’s pretty hot right now with Mantarys Doll_

11:23 Me: _I know thats y I want her. _

11:48 Pegleg: _I can ask but until you have finance attached it’s just a conversation_

11:52 Me: _have the conversation. _

* * *

  
11:22 Me: _listen when you come 2 the cloaking can I ask favbour?_

12:15 Shoes: _sure_

12:15 Shoes: _it’s the party of the year, sweetie._

12:16 Me: _brienne is nervous about being the centre of attention. Can you b supportive_

12:29 Shoes: _you don’t need to ask em, Jaime. of course I will. _

12:30 Shoes: _I’d say you don’t deserve her but she makes me re-evalute you_

12:30 Shoes: _also the dorne shoot. _

12:31 Shoes: _I’ll be in KL end of week, shd I ask her for girls day out? With Marg?_

12:35 Me: _ask but don’t push pls_

12:38 Shoes: _got it._

* * *

09:40 Me: _listen this has to stay between us_

09:55 Copper: _who is this?_

09:56 Me: _Jaime Lannister. Brienne’s husband._

09:58 Copper: _Hi. What can I do for you?_

10:01 Me: _I know_ _what you said about her. so does she. It was cruel and stupid and I wd break your nose but Brienne doesn’t approve of me hitting ppl. _

10:01 Me: _you r invited to our cloaking for reasons but if you even look at her without admiration I will forget what Brienne wants do you understand_

10:15 Copper: _what I said? I told Stannis she was smart and kind and competent._

10:16 Me: _and you told your boyfried she was ugly and absurd and not enough of a woman and she heard him talking about it don’t dcking test me renly_

10:17 Copper: _I don’t remember saying it_

10:17 Me: _well she does and it hurt her and honestly I’d like to make you pay for it but Brienne is too nice_

10:17 Me: _im not nice, in case you were wondering. _

10:18 Me: _and if you make her feel bad at the cloaking ceremonuy Ill froget what Brienne says about punching people_

10:18 Me: _which will ruin it for her so don’t make me_

10:23 Copper: _I take your point_

* * *

14:17 Goodfather: _How are you, goodson?_

14:18 Me: _Good. How was the architect?_

14:19 Goodfather: _this one I liked. _

14:19 Me: _how were his shoes?_

14:20 Goodfather: _sensible_

14:20 Me: _good. N y thing else I need to know?_

14:22 Goodfather: _he thinks a house there can use solar and wind and rainwater to reduce costs_

14:22 Me: _I’m in favour of that. Can we meet him when w’re there?_

14:25 Goodfather: _day before cloaking, already arranged._

14:26 Me: _excellent._

14:26 Me: _there’ll be about 100 people at the ceremony. Brienne is ok with it._

14:27 Me: _I hope tyrion organised other ppl to do the catering if not I will. You shd not have to_

14:34 Goodfather: _He did. I got him to hire local as much as possible_

14:35 Me: _good hopefully people won’t have to eat seaweed this year_

14:52 Goodfather: _It’s very nutritious. It’s not as if we’re reduced to eating nettles._

14:53 Me: _I have the feeling you r japing now._

14:55 Me: _do you want me 2 film that spot on island infrastructure next week 2?_

15:02 Goodfather: _You and Brienne should just enjoy yourselves._

15:03 Me: _it will take 5 mins. Trust me if there’s 1 thing I can do its recite my lines and hit my marks. Do you hve a crew lined up_

15:22 Goodfather: _A crew?_

15:25 Me: _A film crew. For the filming._

15:38 Goodfather: _I thought I’d do it on my phone._

15:40 Me: _k I will bring a crew. _

* * *

15:45 Unknown number: _Hi this is Myrcella._

15:46 Me: _Hi. <strike>Is anything r you</strike> How are you?_

15:46 Myrcella: _Good. Tommen 2. Uncle Stannis gave us ur invitation. _

15:47 Me: _You don’t have to come if you don’t want but if you do <strike>I would be happy</strike> the invitation is opne. _

16:10 Myrcella: _why r u marrying her?_

16:11 Me: _I love her. also there was a hospiotal requirement._

16:13 Myrcella: _but you loved mama. Y didn’t u marry her?_

16:18 Me: _this is maybe not the best way 2 talk about this_

16:18 Myrcella: _don’t u want 2 tell me?_

16:21 Me: _I asked. She didn’t want 2. _

16:21 Myrcella: _y not?_

16:23 Me: _I relly think youd need to talk 2 her about tht. _

16:23 Myrcella: _y wont u tell me_

16:28 Me: _I have my opinion. Hrs might b different. Not fair for me to say what she thinks._

16:32 Myrcella: _k. _

16:35 Myrcella: _I don’t want 2 talk to her right now tho_

16:41 Me: _that’s fair enough. I just don’t fell right talking about her behing her back 2 you._

16:42 Myrcella: _tha’s fair 2. _

17:11 Myrcella: _I’m going 2 tell uncle stannis I want 2 go. But I wont carry ur cloak_

17:13 Me: _didn’t expect that. Lots of cousins coming. No1 will notice you and tommen. _

17:16 Myrcella: _wat if I want ppl 2 know?_

17:17 Me: _that’s up to you. Your choice. _

17:24 Myrcella: _not yet I think. Mayb 1 day_

17:25 Me: _k. _

17:40 Me: _you can call or raven n e time you know_

17:41 Myrcella: _k. _

17:56 Myrcella: _will u have time to visit again? _

17:56 Me: _yes ofc. If stannis agrees._

17:57 Myrcella: _he’s not the boss of u_

17:58 Me: _no but legally he’s the boss of you intilyou turn 18._

17:59 Myrcella: _where’s ur sense of adventure_

18:00 Me: _he scares em. _

18:02 Myrcella: _he’s actually kind of niec in a weird way_

18:02 Me: _2 you. _

18:07 Me: _and its fine he scares me. He wants to protect you. I hope he scares everyone._

18:10 Myrcella: _he picked us up from school yesterday bc it was raining_

18:11 Me: _I continue 2 approve of stannis the mannis_

18:12 Myrcella: _LOL_ _I will tell him u call him that_

18:12 Me: _no don’t_

18:13 Me: _relly don’t_

18:15 Me: _Myrcella? _

* * *

19:02 Stannis B: _Stannis the mannis?_

19:03 Me: _shit shorry was a jape_

19:03 Stannis B: _Myrcella wants to invite you and Brienne to family lunch on Sunday_

19:04 Me: _I will be there, will check with Brienne._

19:05 Stannis B: _I have to give you fair warning about my wife’s dietary preferences_

19:06 Me: _my wife eats seaweed I think we’re all good_

19:12 Stannis B: _it’s very nutritious. And not all that slimy if you soak it long enough._

19:13 Me: _7hells it’s a conspiracy_

19:14 Stannis B: _if you get here before 10 in the morning we can take the children over the dragonstone citadel. _

19:14 Me: _I’ll make sure of it. _

19:15 Me: _is it trye the hall of the stone drum is hsaped like a dragon?_

19:27 Stannis B: _who knows, it’s not like dragons are real. _


	99. Brienne XLII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arianne Martell and Margaery Tyrell have firm ideas of what constitutes a good time on a girls' day out ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovely readers! I'd apologise for the hysterically long hiatus, but since it was caused by the apocalypse that we've been living through down here for nine months, I really couldn't help it. But I have a computer again! And also, internet connectivity! I did manage to do some writing on my phone, and I'm working at getting those bits turned into proper chapters, so hopefully I'll get to show you all the Lannistarth cloaking before the next horseman of the apocalypse rides me down. Stay safe! Wash your hands! The life that you save might just be a fanfic author's!

Brienne was not entirely sure what she was doing in the back of a stretch limousine with Arianne Martell and Margaery Tyrell on a Saturday afternoon, clutching a dozen shopping bags emblazoned with the names of some of King’s Landing’s most exclusive boutiques.

_Let’s meet for lunch_ had seemed so innocuous. Arianne had suggested a café near the Dragonpit, and although it had turned out to be more like a restaurant than Brienne had expected, with white linen tablecloths and crystal waterglasses and a five-page menu, lunch was lunch. Brienne did no more than taste the champagne Margaery insisted they order and did her best to contribute to a conversation that was mostly about films, actors, and fashion, and their sexual partners. At least Arianne and Margaery didn’t seem to mind her awkward silence.

But then, after lunch, Arianne declared that she needed a new dress for Brienne and Jaime’s cloaking, and Margaery and Brienne absolutely _must_ come with her to help her choose. Unlike Jaime, who got around in a relatively normal SUV with Peck doing double duty as assistant and driver, Arianne had hired a stretch limo for the day with a uniformed driver who held the door for the women as they climbed inside. There was more champagne chilling in an ice-bucket in the limousine, and Arianne poured three glasses immediately. Brienne sipped cautiously, and listened to Margaery and Arianne talk about cap sleeves and boat-necks and just how high a heel you could have on a sandal before it stopped being casual and turned into eveningwear.

And somehow, as they’d traipsed from one shop to another with Arianne modelling frock after frock for them, Margaery found a coat that was _absolutely darling, if only I was tall enough – you should try it on, Brienne! You’re going to Pentos, aren’t you, the nights can be cool there even at this time of year. _And it _was_ a nice coat, light enough to be perfect for a summer night, with dropped shoulders and extra fabric in the skirt that somehow magically made Brienne look almost in proportion and even hinted that she might even have a waist. _Oh, you _must_ have it,_ Arianne declared, _my treat, wedding present or something. _

Then there was a blouse with a discreet V neckline and flowing sleeves that Margaery swore she’d throw herself into traffic if Brienne didn’t buy; a pair of trousers that fit high at the waist and flowed loosely down to the ground and a pair of sandals that Arianne insisted absolutely had to go with the pants; a shirt that was almost mannish in style but somehow made the most of Brienne’s meagre bosom; another pair of shoes that _will go with anything, darling, trust me_; more trousers; another blouse … there was champagne in the boutiques, as well, and in the limousine between them. Arianne ordered the driver swing by Fishmonger’s Yard for _snacks_ and the three of them ate shellfish and oysters and drank more champagne and Brienne found herself the owner of a blue dress _that perfectly matches your eyes, just look in the mirror_ which was gathered just beneath her small bust and somehow hid most of her flaws and then shoes that were _just perfect with it, trust me_ and another blouse …

By the time the limo disgorged Brienne at Jaime’s apartment building, it was well and truly after dark and her head was spinning slightly. _I think I’m drunk_, she thought, as she waited for the elevator. When the acceleration as it whisked her upwards made her stagger, Brienne had to revise that. _I’m definitely drunk. _

She fumbled for her keys, dropped three of her bags, stumbled into the door as she scrambled them up, then dropped them again.

The door opened in front of her to reveal Jaime. “Brienne?”

“I’m drunk,” she informed him.

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Did you have a good time?”

Brienne shook her shopping bags at him. “They made me buy things. Actually, they bought them.”

Jaime took them from her, steered her into the apartment and shut the door behind them. “Do you want water, food, or more alcohol?”

“There was _so much_ champagne,” Brienne told him. “And stores. And clothes. And champagne.”

“I can tell.” He put the bags down and drew her to the couch. “Sit down a minute, you’re definitely listing to the left. I’ll get you some water.”

Brienne flopped down on the couch and let the room spin around her. “They’re so small. How can they drink so much? They drank more than me, lots more.”

“Practice.” Jaime sat down beside her and gave her a glass of water. “You’ll feel better tomorrow if you drink that now, wench.”

Brienne propped herself up on her elbow and sipped. “I’m sorry. I meant to be home hours ago. And not drunk.”

“Did you have a good time?”

Brienne thought about it. “Yes?” she hazarded. “I mean, they talk about things I don’t understand, but they’re nice. And I don’t know about the dress, but I like the coat.”

“The dress? The coat?”

“In the bags.” Brienne waved vaguely in their direction. “The dress is blue.”

“Blue’s a good colour on you, wench, it goes with your eyes. Shift over.” She did, and Jaime moved so she could lean back against him. “What’s in the rest of the bags?”

“Shoes. Pants. Tops. Other shoes.” She frowned. “Other pants. Other tops. One is puffy.”

Jaime chuckled, and leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “A puffy top, got it.”

Brienne tilted her head back to scowl up at him. “Are you laughing at me?”

“I am not,” Jaime assured her. “I am laughing at how adorable you are, and how happy it makes me to talk to you.”

“Even when I’m drunk?”

“I’d say you’re tipsy, more than drunk, and yes, tipsy Brienne is also adorable.”

“Alright.” Mollified, Brienne finished her water, put the glass down on the floor and turned over to curl more comfortably against Jaime. “Do you know what pegging is?”

Jaime coughed. “What?”

“Arianne says that Arys likes to be pegged. I was too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know what that was.”

“It’s, uh.” Jaime coughed again, and said a little hoarsely, “Anal penetration.”

Brienne squinted at him. _Anal … oh. _“Like with a … thing?” Her mind refused to picture Arys Oakheart and Arianne Martell engaged in any such activity, although it was disturbingly ready to provide her with a mental picture of Jaime sprawled out beneath her … She swallowed. “A … you know?”

Jaime began to laugh. “Wench. You can ask me what pegging is but you can’t say _sex toy_? Yes, with a _thing._”

“Why would she tell me that? About Arys?” _Not the most important question._ “Do you like it? Being … um, pegged?”

Jaime shifted a little. “Well, first, I don’t know. It wasn’t something …”

“Cersei,” Brienne supplied. “You can say her name.”

“It wasn’t something she ever brought up.” He shrugged. “And, you know. It was pretty much what she wanted. She hardly ever even went down on me, except when she really wanted me to do something.”

Brienne stared up at him. “But you really like that.” She’d been nervous about trying it, but after Jaime’s loud and enthusiastic response to even her unpractised efforts, Brienne couldn’t imagine not giving him what he so evidently enjoyed.

Jaime gave her a crooked grin. “You noticed.” He smoothed his hand over her hair. “And second, that might be a bit further than you’re willing to go at the moment, at least when sober, given you made me hide Shae’s shopping in the back of the wardrobe.”

“Probably,” Brienne agreed. She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the feeling of his hand stroking her hair, but had to open them again and stare at the ceiling as the couch began to rock beneath her. She took a deep breath. “We should just have sex. I mean, proper bedding. To get it over with.”

Jaime snorted. “Ah, what every man wants to hear from his wife in the bedroom. _Let’s get it over with_.”

“You know what I mean. It’s become this thing. And I don’t know if it really is a thing, or if it’s just that it feels like a thing, and if we just do it, then it won’t be a thing and we can be normal about it. Does that make sense?”

“It doesn’t not make sense,” Jaime said cautiously. “And it’s – you know it’s something I’d like, if you wanted. But it’s also probably something we should talk about when you’re sober.”

Brienne tilted her head back to look up at him. “What if I need to be drunk?”

“If you need to be drunk to bed me, you won’t be bedding me.”

“I might need to be drunk to talk about it, though,” Brienne pointed out. _Or think about it_. Not that it made all that much sense, to be nervous about something that was, after all, less intimate than Jaime burying his face between her legs. _But still _… somehow, it felt different. “I think we should make a plan. Set a time. _Not_ the day we get cloaked. I don’t want to be nervous about it the whole way through.”

Jaime leaned down to kiss her forehead. “We don’t have to, you know.”

“I know. But I _want_ to. To at least know, if I like it, if I’m terrible at it.”

“I doubt you’ll be terrible,” Jaime said.

“Well, I’m _me_,” Brienne said, with a wave of her hand at her broad, heavy body. “I’m not good at other girl things, like clothes, and makeup. At any girl things.”

“I beg to differ.” Jaime kissed her forehead again. “You are, and I only mention it because apparently tipsy Brienne is also less shy Brienne, excellent at giving head and extremely talented at jerking me off. And, not to endorse gender stereotypes, but cooking is traditionally considered a _girl thing_ and you’re great at that. Also you must be at least fairly competent at sewing, if you made your own armour for the Faires.”

Brienne wrinkled her nose. “Does that count? Attaching bits of metal to leather?”

Jaime chuckled. “Wench, you’re talking to a man who doesn’t own a needle and couldn’t use one if he did. I’m pretty sure making a whole suit of light armour counts as sewing. Let’s see, you like romcoms, that’s _very_ girly, if we’re going by cultural expectations. You like kids.”

“Yes, but I –”

“And I know about clothes, and can dance, and am embarrassingly familiar with the intricacies of the love-lives of the women on _Bedding and the City_, which are all girly things. Do you think I’m less of a man?”

“No!” Brienne sat up enough to turn and look at him. “Jaime, no, did someone –” He was grinning, and she stopped. “Alright. I take your point.”

“Come here.” He gathered her close again. “Maybe you should talk about all this to your maester. I don’t even remember my first time.”

Brienne frowned, resting her head on his chest. “You don’t remember? How old were you?”

Jaime shrugged a little. “I don’t know. I remember my mother catching us doing _something_, and being horrified enough to ban Cersei from the house, and forbid me from visiting her. And she died giving birth to Tyrion, so we must have been … seven?”

_Gods be good._ Fortunately, Brienne realised she must be sobering up a little because she managed not to say it aloud. “That’s young.”

“We were kids, playing around, I guess.” He shrugged a little. “Like kids do.”

“Is that what Maester Luwin says?”

Jaime went still. “Well, no. But _I’d_ need to be the drunk one to get into that.”

Brienne turned enough to wrap her arms around his waist. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s just a question.” Jaime’s voice was light enough, but Brienne could hear an edge to it.

“No, I mean … I’ve been thinking about this as a big stupid deal for _me_. But it’s not just me, is it?”

He laughed a little, no humour in it. “Well, wench, I can’t remember my _first_ time, but I can remember plenty of others, so it’s not quite the same.”

“What if I’m not as good as she was? Cersei?” Brienne blurted out, and then buried her face against his shoulder. “Seven Hells, forget I said that, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –”

“That’s what worries you?” The tension went out of him. “Brienne. Wench.”

“It must have been good. For you to stay with her so long.”

“It was … forbidden. Exciting.” He paused. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

_No, not really._ But she nodded against Jaime’s shoulder. “If you want to tell me.”

“It was just what I knew, what love was like, what sex was like. And she needed me, or she said she did, it was the only thing that made her feel better. Feel like herself, she said. I wasn’t lying when I said that to Ulwyck Uller. When she turned me away, it was always a punishment for something, it meant I’d failed her somehow, and I couldn’t stand that, and so that was mixed up with it too. The relief that her letting me bed her meant I hadn’t let her down. And now I think that I was probably letting her down all the way along. Tyrion always said she was bad for me, but looking back, I wasn’t exactly much good for her, either. If I hadn’t been around …” Brienne felt Jaime shrug a little. “She might have left Robert the first time he hurt her, instead of using me to get her revenge, maybe. Had a normal life with someone else instead of … whatever it was that we had together.” He stroked her hair. “So I don’t think you should worry about it.”

Brienne raised her head to look at him. “Do you think I’ve been punishing you? With the not-bedding?”

Jaime’s eyes went wide. “Seven Hells, wench, no, that’s not what I meant! I know you’re not.” He brushed her cheek, the fingers of his weak right hand caressing her scar. “You would never. Brienne.”

She turned her head to kiss his poor maimed hand. “We have to do it either tonight, before we go to Tarth, or after we leave,” she said. “Bedding, I mean. I don’t think I could face it under the same roof as Dad.”

“What about Pentos?” Jaime suggested. “I mean, it’s sort of traditional, isn’t it, or it would be if we lived in the age of ice and fire.”

Brienne nodded. “Alright. Pentos.” She gave him a stern look. “And do _not_ pack Shae’s … _things._”

Jaime chuckled. “Got it. No _things_. Just condoms.”


	100. Brienne XLIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gets his own way, on a number of (sadly SFW) fronts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I'd get to 100 chapters and nearly 220,000 words when I started with the tiny idea of Jaime Lannister, actor and Brienne Tarth, stuntwoman, but here we are! I'm so grateful to everyone who has read and commented so far, especially those who stuck with me through the summer of disaster.

Brienne woke before Jaime the next morning, which hardly surprised her since the last thing she remembered was falling asleep on the couch midway through the early evening news. Her throat was dry and her eyes felt a little scratchy, but she wasn’t nearly as hungover as she might have expected.

_Or embarrassed._ She might have needed a little Braavosi bravery to set aside her self-consciousness and actually have the conversation with Jaime that she should probably have had weeks ago, but now it was done, and there was a definite date in the future she could stick a mental pin in and say _that’s the day we’ll bed, not before, not after_, she felt relieved, even now she was sober.

She rolled over and saw that Jaime had put a glass of water and two willowbark pills on her bedside table. _Drink me_, a note propped against the glass said, and under the pills was another saying _Eat me. _Brienne chuckled as she scooped up the painkillers, and Jaime stirred. “Your head can’t be that bad if you’re laughing.”

“Surprisingly, it isn’t.”

Jaime rolled over to drape his arm around her waist. “The benefits of clean living. And youth.”

Brienne took the pills and washed them down with a gulp of water. “I didn’t take you for an _Alys in Wonderland_ fan.”

“I used to read it to Tyrion until he was old enough to read it himself.”

She turned to frown at him. “I thought you said he was reading at teenage level by the time he was six.”

Jaime smiled, clearly still proud of his clever little brother. “He was.”

Brienne snorted. “Jaime, five is too young for _Alys in Wonderland_. I’m surprised he didn’t have nightmares.”

“Our father gave him plenty, any others probably didn’t have room.” His phone squawked and Jaime sighed. “If that’s Willas with another idea for _Oathkeeper_ …” He rolled over again and picked it up, peering at the screen. “Joy. I hired her because she was young and enthusiastic, and now I discover the downside of youth and enthusiasm.” His phone squawked again. “And Janyce Hunter.”

“Who’s she, another one of your minions?”

“A realtor. There’s somewhere she wants to show us.”

“We’ve got a flight to Dragonstone in …” Brienne checked her own phone. “Three hours. And you haven’t packed for Tarth. Or the honeymoon.”

“I have actually, I packed for both of us last night after you passed out.”

“I was already packed.”

“I packed your new clothes. Except the coat, it’s hot as a sauna on Dragonstone most of the summer but they do occasionally get a breeze, you might need it.”

“Jaime …” Brienne twisted her fingers together. “I don’t even know if I like the clothes.”

“You can try them on again when we get to Tarth and give them to the op-shop in Morne if you don’t want to keep them. Hello, Peck?” Brienne turned to see he had his phone at his ear. “Can you pick us up in forty-five minutes, no, just not Pia, Joy wants a meeting and I’m trying to kill two birds with one stone. Great. Yes, that would be great. Alright, see you then.” He put the phone down. “So I can have the meeting with Joy while Peck drives us to see the property and then he can take us straight to the seaplane dock.”

Brienne frowned. “You’ve got him running errands already this early? Jaime, it’s Sunday.”

Jaime grinned at her. “I haven’t got him doing anything, he’s got the car because I let him take it home last night. He had a date, apparently. Which is either a very rare occurrence in the life of Josmyn Peckledon, or it’s a rare date, because it’s the first time he’s ever asked. Do you want first shower?”

“You take it,” Brienne said. “I need a coffee.”

“Coffee, and a bacon-and-egg sandwich,” Jaime said cheerfully, and bounced out of bed. “You’ll be good as new by midmorning.”

Brienne drank her coffee, gave herself a self-indulgent extra two minutes in the shower and got dressed. She’d deliberately left her new jeans out of her packing to wear today to see Myrcella again and meet Tommen but paused as she picked up her sneakers. “Jaime?”

“Wench?” he said from the living room.

“Did you see the other shoes, when you were packing? Should I wear one of those pairs, instead of my sneakers?”

“You’re going on a several hour walking tour of one of the largest castles in the Seven Kingdoms. It’s not a day for new shoes.”

“Good point.” Brienne put her sneakers on, with socks this time to eliminate any risk of blisters, but she folded them down as low as she could. “Alright, I’m ready.”

Jaime met her at the door of the bedroom, holding her coat for her as if they were in an old movie. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and he settled it on her shoulders, gave it a few tweaks and studied her seriously. “Very nice. Your friends have excellent taste.”

The full skirts of the coat swished around Brienne’s legs unfamiliarly as she carried two of Jaime’s suitcases to the elevator. It made her feel even taller than she was, but oddly, not in a bad way. Peck and Joy Hill were waiting by the car, and Joy looked her up and down and said _nice coat, very nice_ with open envy and Brienne was settling herself into the back seat of the SUV before she realised she hadn’t even begun to parse the other woman’s tone for a hidden barb.

“I can give you the name of the store,” she said shyly as Peck started the car.

Joy turned in the front seat to smile at her. “I haven’t the stature to carry it off, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve got between here and the Hill of Rhaenys for this meeting,” Jaime said. “And there won’t be much traffic at this hour on a Sunday.”

“Actually, I was hoping to talk to the both of you,” Joy said.

Brienne blinked. “Is there something – do you need me to do another interview for Jaime?”

“No,” Joy said. “I don’t _need_ you to do anything, but there’s an opportunity I thought you might be interested, based on something Jaime mentioned.”

Brienne stared down at her hands, clutching each other in her lap. “A sponsorship.”

“Not exactly. Well, sponsorship and a little more. Have you heard of the Westeros Vegetable Growers Association?” Brienne shook her head. “It’s a peak body that lobbies on behalf of farmers in the Seven Kingdoms. And Jaime said to me that you were inspiring children to eat their vegetables …”

“_One_ child,” Brienne pointed out. 

“One child that you know about,” Jaime said. He reached across the back seat and took her hand, untangling her fingers from each other. “I bet there’s plenty of little girls – and little boys – who’d like to grow up big and strong and brave like the Blue Knight.”

Joy nodded. “The WVGA certainly thinks so. They’d like to talk to you about being an ambassador. Visiting farms, but also perhaps demonstrating recipes. Jaime says you’re a great cook.”

“I can cook,” Brienne said a little numbly. 

“And you like kids, you’re great with them,” Jaime said. “You could do something showing kids how to make delicious vegetables.”

“I was thinking for the weirnet, at least first,” Joy said. “That would limit their financial exposure and also let you get used to the idea.”

“But I …”

Jaime squeezed her fingers. “How do you think you’d go if I asked you to give a cooking lesson to Shireen and Tommen and Myrcella? You wouldn’t hesitate, would you?”

“No, but …”

“It would just be like that, but with cameras, and trust me, I’d make sure they were unobtrusive. You’d forget they were there.”

“But –”

“All those kids, and their families, learning how to make healthy, nutritious meals.”

“Jaime.”

“All those kids like Jaqen’s daughter, learning new ways to love beets.”

“Jaime …”

“You’d enjoy it, I promise you.”

“Jaime!”

“Just try it once,” he wheedled with his best pleading look, which was _extremely_ pleading, because he was a trained actor and could _almost_ hide the spark of amusement in his green eyes. “If you hate it, you won’t have to do it again. Joy will make sure of that.” He shot Joy a glance. “Won’t she.”

“Absolutely,” Joy said firmly. “I’ll get Tyrion to put a clause in the contract that they can’t even use the first time if you say no, how about that?”

“I suppose that would be alright,” Brienne conceded.

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Joy said quickly. “And, Jaime, I’ve lined up three potential ad campaigns for you month after next, you should be able to shoot them back-to-back and they’ve all agreed to do the filming at Hayford. Whiskey, Tolosi pepper sauce, and a washing machine.”

“I don’t think Jaime knows how to _use_ a washing machine,” Brienne said. 

Jaime chuckled. “Mean wench. I’m sure they’ll give me a lesson. Alright, go ahead and set it up.”

“Also _Golden Rose_ came back to me and they’re still very keen to do the interview.”

“Mmm. Can they do it on Tarth?”

“I’ll ask.”

The car pulled up on a quiet residential street filled with huge houses. A slender woman with immaculately styled iron-grey hair waved at them from in front of a rusted iron fence enclosing an overgrown front garden.

“That’s Janyce,” Jaime said. “We’re here. Peck, can you drop Joy where she needs to go and be back in time to get us to the plane?”

“I can,” Peck said as Jaime got out of the car.

Brienne got out as well, eying the tangle of weeds and untidy plants with trepidation. “Does anyone live here?”

“Not at the moment,” Janyce Hunter said cheerfully. She shook Jaime’s hand and then Brienne’s, then opened the gate and led the way up the front path, batting away branches and vines. “Don’t be put off by the fact that it needs a little bit of work. The bones are wonderful, and everything else is just details.” She unlocked the front door of the house – a mansion, really, at least by Brienne’s standards. “Mind your step!”

_A little bit of work. _Five minutes later, standing in the kitchen and looking from broken floorboards to missing taps, Brienne reflected that Janyce Hunter clearly had very flexible ideas of what _a little bit of work_ meant.

Jaime came up to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Do you want to see upstairs?”

“Are the stairs even safe?”

He chuckled. “I checked. There’s a temporary set of builder’s props put in to make sure.”

“This would cost a fortune to make liveable,” Brienne pointed out. “I mean, we could save if I did the floors, and I know Dad could take care of the plumbing, but neither of us is rated for electricity and –” She stopped, because Jaime was laughing. “It’s not funny, Jaime, people die all the time from trying to do their own wiring.”

“I am not laughing at the fact that you’re not an electrician,” he assured her. “I’m laughing because I have to call a plumber to fix a dripping tap and I’ve married into a family that can apparently all but rebuild a house. Anyway, it would cost a lot less to buy this place and make it just how we want it than to try and find somewhere already perfect.”

“How did it get into this state?”

“No-one’s lived here for decades,” Janyce Hunter said from the doorway. “It belonged to one of the Fossoways. She had a huge fight with her family and willed it to a charity. They contested the will, and it’s been tied up in court for ages.”

“And let me guess, the lawyers got rich and the heirs found they had no choice but to sell?” Jaime said.

“They’re highly motivated,” the realtor admitted.

“Come on, wench, let’s see upstairs,” Jaime said.

Brienne let him tug her out into the hall and up the braced staircase. The upstairs was in even worse state than the downstairs. _And I wouldn’t have thought that was possible._ She picked her way between holes in the floor and counted the holes in the ceiling. Damp stains showed there were probably holes in the roof as well. “Jaime …”

“You don’t like it.”

She stared at him. “You _do_?”

“It has potential.” 

“Those are famous last words.” She turned in a circle. “And it’s so big. Do we need _seven_ bedrooms?”

“Five, if we make two of them studies,” Jaime corrected. “And that’s only four spare rooms. And if Myrcella and Tommen ever decide in the future they want to visit, they could have their own rooms, which would mean only two spare rooms, which is what we have now.”

“Jaime ...”

He took her hand. “Come here.” Brienne followed him back into the hall and down it, half-expecting the floor to give way beneath her weight and dump her in a tangle of broken limps on the ground floor. “Here. This would be our room. Look.” Jaime led her to the bay window. “The Red Keep, see? It’s a terrific view. We’d be right by the Dragonpit for brunch on weekends. It’s close enough to stroll down to the farmer’s market at the Dragon Gate, too. We’re around the corner from Tyrion’s place.”

“There are _three_ dining rooms downstairs.”

“We’ll make one of them an armoury and one of them a library.”

“Jaime …” She turned to face him. “I know you keep telling me you have a lot of money, but I don’t think you realise just how expensive it can be fix up an old house. And what about the place you want to build at Dreamfyre Point?”

He shrugged. “I’ll do some more ads. Or get a loan from Tyrion. Or both.” He leaned up to kiss her cheek. “Just imagine it, wench. With all the floors fixed and the walls painted. A nice big bed over there. A window seat. Having our coffee watching the Red Keep glowing in the morning sun. That great big kitchen down there where you can teach me how to make those crab cakes of yours. There’s a yard, too, out the back, not a big one, but plenty of room for a table and chairs for summer evenings.”

Absurd as it was, it wasn’t Jaime’s usual nonsense. His green eyes were earnest, his expression sincere. “You really like it.”

“I really do. Do you hate it, though?”

“I don’t hate it,” Brienne said cautiously. “I’m just worried about the amount of work.”

Jaime wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned his head on her shoulder. “It would be new. An old house, but a new one. Just ours. Somewhere where nothing had happened that wasn’t us. Where I hadn’t been …” He stopped.

_Oh, Jaime._ She put her arms around him. “Well. If you promise me something.”

“Anything, wench. With the house or without it.”

“I will not hear one word of complaint about how long it takes or how much it costs.”

Jaime chuckled, and turned his head to kiss her neck. “Alright, wench. I promise … to give you fair warning to cover your ears before I start cursing the contractors and the craftsmen.” 


	101. Brienne XLIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday lunch ...

“Here, let me.” Brienne took the suitcase from Peck’s hand.

He tried to snatch it back. “Miss Brienne, I can –”

“I’m sure you can,” she said calmly, hauling a second bag out of the boot. “But so can I. And you need to pick up Pia and Pod and get them to Storm’s End in time for the ferry.”

“I could take all your bags with us –”

“And if the ferry is cancelled and the plane isn’t, Jaime will be stranded without his hair-products, and none of us want to put up with his whinging.”

“I heard that,” Jaime said cheerfully.

Brienne widened her eyes innocently. “Thank goodness, I would have hated it to have gone to waste.”

He took his bag from her. “I’m strong enough to carry my own shampoo, wench. Although I did think the ferries were only cancelled during the winter.”

Brienne followed him down the dock and handed her suitcase to the pilot after Jaime did. “We have the occasional summer storm as well. It is called the Stormlands, after all.”

Jaime climbed into the seaplane and turned to offer his hand to help her up after him. “I might not mention that to _Golden Rose_.”

Brienne settled herself into her seat. “Why are you doing the interview?”

“Joy thinks it’s a good idea.” Jaime shrugged a little, fastening his seatbelt. “If they come to Tarth, they’ll have to take the photos in front of one gorgeous view or another and I can talk about the wonderful seafood and welcoming community. Might give the Tarth tourism industry a bit more of a boost.”

Brienne fastened her own and leaned back in her seat as the seaplane pulled away from the dock and began to taxi for take-off. “You do remember that we have one motel, and two bed-and-breakfasts, right?”

“If there’s demand, Starpike supplies might make the whole glamping-on-Tarth experience a regular thing.” Jaime took Brienne’s hand as the plane lifted away from the water. “Or regular camping, for the hiking crowd. Either way, they’ll come, they’ll spend.”

Brienne smiled. “Jaime, I think you have an exaggerated idea of Tarth’s poverty. We don’t need you to rescue us from subsistence.”

He squeezed her fingers. “I know that there’s a pothole on the road between Morne and Aemon’s Falls that broke the axle of Florys Kartarth’s truck last month and it’ll be weeks still before the municipal budget can afford to even begin to fix it. I know that Tarth’s taxes contribute seven percent to the Stormlands’ budget but only three percent of Stormlands spending goes on Tarth. I know that –”

Brienne had stopped listening. “Jaime. Do that again.”

His brows quirked. “Do what?”

“Squeeze my hand.”

He did. “Like this?”

“Jaime.” Brienne raised their linked hands and turned them over. Jaime’s right thumb and first three fingers were wrapped firmly around hers. His ring and little finger didn’t grip as tightly – but they were curled loosely around her hand. “How long have you been able to do that?”

Jaime blinked at their hands. “I don’t know. I’ve been keeping up with the physio, but … maybe five minutes, I guess?”

Brienne drew his hand to her and kissed his fingers. “I hope Gilly is on your list of invitations for the cloaking.”

He gave her a slightly unsteady smile. “Of course. She’s cancelled out by her plus-one, Samwell Tarly, who counts on _your_ list.”

She held his hand in both hers through all the short flight to Dragonstone. Jaime didn’t say anything, but she felt him gripping her fingers again and again. He let go of her hand long enough for them both to climb out of the seaplane at the Dragonstone dock and collect their luggage, but seized it again once they’d checked their bags at the ticket office. Brienne squeezed his hand back, rubbing her thumb across the back of his fingers, pressing harder on the two last, weak digits to be sure he could feel it, and was rewarded by a startled smile each time.

Stannis was waiting for them at the end of the dock, along with Myrcella, Shireen, and a shy tow-haired boy wearing a backpack that Stannis introduced as Tommen. Stannis ushered them all to a minivan at the end of the dock, and Brienne found herself sitting next to Tommen in the middle while Jaime was between Shireen and Myrcella in the back. The boy curled protectively around his bag and kept as much distance between him and Brienne as possible, so she hunched away from him as much as she could and listened to Jaime being grilled by two teenage girls on what next year’s catwalk styles would be. He was certainly able to hold his own in the conversation, far more than Brienne would have been able to do.

The fashion talk died away once they reached the citadel. Brienne thought that was probably due more to Stannis taking charge of the group than the girls discovering a greater interest in history than in clothes. Stannis steered them through the courtyard and into the tower of the Stone Drum, pointing out interesting architectural features, while Jaime bounded ahead, exclaiming over every dragon statue he spotted. The girls trailed after Stannis, looking interested, although Brienne suspected it was more to make Stannis feel appreciated than out of genuine enthusiasm.

Tommen lagged behind, clutching his bag, and Brienne dropped back a little to keep a discreet eye on him – or at least, as discreet as anyone her size could manage to be.

“Wench, we can walk right into the dragon’s mouth!” Jaime called happily, gazing at the entrance to the Great Hall.

Myrcella gave Brienne a sideways look. “You don’t mind him calling you that?”

Brienne smiled at the girl. “I don’t. It’s an inside joke, I suppose.”

Myrcella raised an eyebrow. “You _suppose_?”

“I’ve never had an inside joke with anyone except my dad before,” Brienne confessed. “So I’m not entirely sure what they’re like.” She cleared her throat. “Myrcella, is Tommen alright? He doesn’t seem to want to be here.”

Myrcella sighed. “Oh, he’s got his kittens with him, he’ll be fretting over them.”

Brienne blinked. “Kittens?”

“He was feeding a stray cat, and she was hit by a car, and she had kittens, so Tommen is trying to take care of them. They have to be fed every few hours, so he takes them everywhere in that bag.”

“Alright,” Brienne said calmly, and slowed her pace even more as they approached the huge carved dragon teeth that framed the entrance to the Great Hall of the Stone Drum, until Tommen had no choice but to catch her up. “Tommen, your sister said you’re fostering some orphaned kittens,” she said conversationally. “And I thought maybe you’d like to be taking care of them more than wandering around an old castle.”

Tommen looked up at her, his wary expression making him look extraordinarily like Jaime, or at least, like Jaime at his worst moments. “Uncle Stannis wanted us to come.”

“And you did come,” Brienne said. “Here we are. But if I was feeling a bit tired, and wanted to sit in the car while everyone else did the tour, would you be a gentleman and keep me company?”

His eyes narrowed, considering that, and then he gave a firm nod.

“Alright, wait here a moment.” Brienne jogged to catch up with Stannis, made her excuses and got the keys to the minivan, gave Jaime a _look _when he seemed likely to insist on medical evacuation as a response for Brienne’s completely uncharacteristic ‘tiredness’, and hurried back to Tommen.

He was still guarded and quiet as they walked back to the carpark, but once they were inside the minivan he unzipped his backpack and shyly lifted out a tiny scrap of black-and-white fur. “This is Meraxes,” he said. “She’s the biggest.”

“She’s very handsome,” Brienne said gravely, although in truth the kitten was all mouth and ears and whiskers and looked less _handsome_ than _pathetic._ “How do you feed them? With a bottle?”

Tommen shook his head, stroking Meraxes. “You can’t use a normal baby bottle. There’s a special kitten bottle you can get, but I’m still saving my allowance. But they can lick the milk from my finger.”

“That must take a lot of time. Is it regular milk, or baby formula?”

“Kitten formula. Shireen got it for me. And it does. Take a lot of time.” He glanced at Brienne. “Would you like to hold her?”

“I would, if it wouldn’t upset her.”

“I don’t think it would. She’s the best with people,” Tommen said. He held the kitten out, and Brienne took her gently in both hands – although the kitten was so small Brienne could have cradled her in one palm. “Hold her close so she feels secure,” Tommen instructed.

Brienne brought Meraxes in towards her chest. “Here, little one. There you go.” The kitten didn’t seem to need any reassurance, licking Brienne’s thumb enthusiastically. “Is she hungry?”

“They’re always hungry,” Tommen said. “I try to keep up.”

“How do you manage with school?” Brienne asked, and then thought _oh, I see_ as Tommen’s gaze slid away from hers. “Mmm. Do Stannis and Selyse know you’re skipping school?”

“No, and you can’t tell them!” Tommen cried hotly. “If they know they’ll make me go and if I’m away all day the kittens will starve!”

“I promise, I won’t let the kittens starve,” Brienne said. “And I’m sure that Stannis and Selyse wouldn’t want that either. But there might be a better solution than you getting behind in school, don’t you think?” 

Brienne would have told Stannis what was going on whether Tommen agreed or not, but after a half-hour spent helping him feed the four kittens one drop of milk at a time, he finally accepted her argument that adult assistance was necessary. When the others emerged from the citadel, Brienne climbed out of the van and drew Stannis aside. 

His eyebrows drew together in a thunderous scowl when he heard that Tommen had been skipping school but he climbed into the back of the minivan and met Meraxes and had a long quiet talk with Tommen while Jaime fidgeted beside Brienne and pretended he didn’t want to be included in the discussion. On the way back to the Baratheon home for lunch, Stannis pulled into a shopping centre carpark and marched Tommen inside. They returned after a quarter-hour, both laden down with bags and boxes each emblazoned with a pink pawprint and with Tommen wreathed in smiles. He spent the rest of the drive home happily showing them all everything that Stannis had bought at the pet store – absolutely everything cat-related that they had in stock, as far as Brienne could tell – and disappeared into his bedroom with his kittens and their accessories, toys, and equipment as soon as they were all through the front door.

Selyse Baratheon looked exactly as Brienne would have imagined her from what Stannis had said: tall and thin, with the intense expression of a woman who hadn’t eaten a pastry in three decades and didn’t think anyone else should either. She seemed completely unaware of Jaime’s notoriety or even of the cloud over his relationship with Tommen and Myrcella, greeting him as warmly as she greeted Brienne and immediately producing a platter with sliced vegetables and a selection of dips.

“Let me,” Shireen said promptly. She took the platter and began to offer it to each of the adults in turn. “Avoid the purple one,” she whispered to Brienne, and a moment later Brienne heard her give the same warning to Jaime.

“Tommen?” Selyse asked her husband quietly.

“He’s fine,” Stannis assured her. “We’ll talk later.”

Stannis might have texted Jaime that he needed to warn them about Selyse’s cooking, but lunch was delicious. Instead of a ham or a roast capon, they had a baked loaf of lentils and beans, vegetables of every description, and two salads that actually made Brienne feel less sympathy for Jaime and his intermittent diets. There was even a seaweed side-dish that Jaime avoided but Brienne and Stannis both took seconds of. Brienne secured Selyse’s promise to send the recipes for all of them, which made the other woman turn pink with pleasure and earned Brienne a dark look from Jaime. _Seaweed?_ he mouthed at her.

“So you can cook?” Myrcella asked Brienne. “Did your mama teach you?”

Brienne shook her head. “My mum died when I was really little. I don’t even remember her. I learned from books.”

Myrcella’s forehead wrinkled. “You can learn cooking from books?”

Brienne smiled at her. “You can, although I probably made a lot more mistakes and inedible meals than I would have with someone teaching me. But there was just me and Dad, and he used to come home from work and have to make dinner, and I got old enough to realise how tired he was at the end of the day, so I wanted to do at least one thing that would make it easier for him.” She shrugged. “So I borrowed cookbooks from the library and tried stuff out.”

“What was the first thing you cooked?”

“Tuna bake,” Brienne said promptly. “Except Dad had caught a shark that weekend so I used that instead of tuna. And I used seaweed instead of peas. It wasn’t … as successful as I’d hoped it would be.”

Stannis gave his cough of a laugh. “How old were you?”

Brienne shrugged. “Nine? Maybe? I really just remember my father’s face as he tried to pretend it was delicious and how much I wanted to sink through the floor.”

“Speaking as someone who is a regular beneficiary of your culinary abilities,” Jaime said easily, “I for one am grateful for your father’s sacrifices.”

Stannis glanced at his watch. “I don’t want to bend guest-right,” he said, “but if you miss your flight there’s not another until tomorrow.”

Selyse rose to her feet. “Let me pack something up for you to take to your father.”

“That would be wonderful,” Brienne said sincerely. “Especially the seaweed, if there’s any left.”

_Seaweed_, Jaime mouthed at Brienne again, and reached out to take her hand under the table. “Is _everybody_ a selkie?”

It took most of the drive back down to the seaport for Brienne to explain that to Stannis.


	102. Jaime XXXIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has an interview, and Brienne has a bad case of pre-cloaking jitters.

“The thing that’s best about Tarth is …” Jaime turned a little, making sure his face was still to the camera, and swept a hand in a gesture that encompassed the sparkling blue sea and the brilliant sky. “There’s no place you can go on this island without seeing something so beautiful most people would fly to Essos to look at. Second best is how wonderful the people here are – how warm and welcoming. I’ve felt at home since the first day I arrived.”

“And are there any downsides to this island paradise?” Megga Tyrell asked, right on cue.

“If there’s a downside, it’s the raw deal the people of Tarth get from the rest of the Stormlands.” Jaime put his hands back in his pockets and gave his best earnest-and-sincere look. “Seven percent of the general revenue of the Stormlands comes from Tarth, but only three percent of the spending comes back.” He shrugged. “The people of Tarth are resilient, and independent. Tarth has also historically given far more to the Seven Kingdoms than it ever received. That means the people here don’t raise the kind of fuss you’d see in the Crownlands or the Riverlands at this sort of unfairness, but unfairness is what it is. The roads here have potholes that will wreck your car. If you’re a local, and you need a doctor, you better hope a neighbour can drive you because it’s a long, long wait for a medivac copter. It’s alright for tourists, who have everything they needed included in the booking fee, but locals definitely get the awkward end of the pomegranate.”

“Your wife is a Tarth local, isn’t she?” Megga asked.

Jaime smiled, not needing to rely on years of practice in front a camera this time. “She is. She grew up here, the daughter of one of Tarth’s modern heroes, Selwyn Tarth. She has all the qualities that make Tarth so wonderful – kindness, strength. I can’t say that discovering Tarth is the best thing about knowing her, because _she’s_ the best thing about knowing her, but it’s certainly been a definite benefit.”

“And you’re building a house here?”

Jaime nodded. “We are. There’s a headland that looks straight out across the Narrow Sea to Pentos, and that’s going to be our home, at least when my work allows it.”

“I understand you’re developing a new project, a film about the Long Night?”

“Yes, _Oathkeeper._ I’ve always loved the old stories, something I’m lucky enough to share with my wife Brienne, and I’m excited to tackle such a well-known legend from what will be, hopefully, an excitingly fresh angle.”

“Can you tell us more about what that angle will be?”

“Well, I shouldn’t say too much, but …” Jaime leaned forward a little and lowered his voice. “There will be dragons.”

“And three … two … one … we’re out,” the cameraman said.

“That was fantastic, Mr Lannister,” Megga said. “We’ll get everything we need for print from the transcript and stills from the video, and the whole thing will blow up on the weirnet when we post it.”

“So long as Joy signs off,” Jaime reminded her, and she nodded. “So you want to do the over-overs now, or later?”

Megga blinked. “The over-overs? Mr Lannister, we don’t need to … we’ll just use my voice.”

“Nonsense,” Jaime said robustly. “You’ve got a great face for news and you didn’t wander off the agreed questions. You deserve to be properly featured. We’ll do the over-overs. Not here, though.”

“Not here?”

“Light’s no good on reverse,” the cameraman agreed.

“We should be …” Jaime scanned the area, and then pointed. “Over there. You’ll still have the hills behind you, but the light will work.” The cameraman nodded, and Jaime led the way, Megga trailing behind, still protesting. “Here.” He took her by the shoulders and moved her to the right position. “Like this. And I’m here …” He took a step sideways and glanced at the cameraman. “This good?”

“Fucking great.”

“Alright. Let’s go.”

“So, Jaime,” Megga said. “What’s good – shit, sorry, what’s best – shit – go again, I’m sorry.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Jaime said. “Let’s just do the interview again. Forget about the over-overs. Just do the interview.”

She gaped at him. “But that would take –”

“Five whole minutes,” Jaime said, and grinned at her. “Listen. I’ve been doing this a long time. It’s way harder to do lines in isolation. So just interview me again, while –” He glanced over his shoulder.

“Hugh,” the cameraman provided.

“While Hugh films you instead of me this time, alright?”

Megga gulped, and nodded. “So, Jaime,” she said. “What’s best about the island of Tarth?”

“The thing that’s best about Tarth,” Jaime said easily, and turned to indicate the road and windbreak behind him as if they were the sweeping curve of the bay he’d been filmed in front of.

When they were done, Megga was embarrassingly effusive in her thanks for what was, as far as Jaime was concerned, a basic professional courtesy. She and Hugh were staying in Morne over night, at the one motel, to do another piece for _Golden Rose_ on the cloaking ceremony itself. Jaime recommended the _Safe Harbour_ for dinner, waved them goodbye as they drove off, and strolled back down to Evenfall to see how nervous Brienne had managed to make herself about tomorrow night in his absence.

_Very_, was the answer. The minute he stepped through the back door, Jaime could hear Selwyn’s deep voice lowered to a reassuring rumble instead of his usual baritone boom. “Sweetling, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re saying. Just open the door.”

_Seven Hells_. Jaime rummaged in the fridge and located the seafood salad that Brienne had been making when he’d headed out for his interview. He snagged a fork from the drying rack beside the sink and took the stairs two at a time.

“I’m sure that’s not even slightly true,” Selwyn was saying to Brienne’s bedroom door when Jaime reached the top of the stairs. “Sweetling …”

“I’ve got this one,” Jaime said quietly.

“It’s the dress,” Selwyn said sadly. “She says it’s terrible.”

Jaime knocked on the door as Selwyn went back downstairs. “Wench?”

“Go away!” Brienne shouted.

“Brienne. I feel like you might be upset about something. Is there anything you need me to do?”

He could hear her sniffling through the door. “I can’t wear this!”

Jaime forked up a bite of the salad. “Then get cloaked in jeans and a Mance Rayder T-shirt, like I keep telling you,” he said with his mouth full.

“There are hundreds of people coming, I can’t wear jeans!”

“Wench, you can wear anything you want. It’s _our_ cloaking.” Jaime took another mouthful. “This is delicious, by the way. You really should give thought to opening that café.”

There was a brief silence from the other side of the door. “What’s delicious?”

“That salad you made.”

The door flew open and Brienne glared at him, utterly magnificent in a loose, floor-length gown of brilliant white that alternately billowed around her and clung to her long, strong limbs with each breath. “That was for dinner, Jaime! What am I going to give all our guests now?”

He grinned at her. “I only had two bites. And you look fantastic, by the way.” Brienne reached for the bowl and he held it out of her reach. “No, you don’t want to spill anything on that magnificent creation.”

“Oh, Jaime, don’t be ridiculous!” Brienne stormed back into her bedroom, but she left the door open behind her, so Jaime followed. “I look like – like a –”

Jaime put the salad down on the dresser, well out of the way. “You _look_ like a combination of the Warrior and the Maiden, is what you look like.”

Brienne burst into tears. “Don’t m-make fun of m-me!” she wailed. “Not y-you!”

“Brienne.” Jaime crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m not, and I would never, and you know that, when you’re not in a state. You look amazing, and a bit terrifying too if I’m honest. Like you should be descending from on high and smiting miscreants, and they’d probably be grateful.” 

Brienne put her head on his shoulder. “Jaime. Don’t talk nonsense, not right now.”

“I’m not,” he assured her.

“I looked in the mirror!”

“Mmm, I bet you didn’t look properly, though,” Jaime said. “I bet you just stood in front of the mirror and then decided you looked terrible.”

Brienne raised her head and stared at him. “How else do you look in a mirror besides standing in front of it?”

Jaime grinned at her. “Good clothes are designed to look good while you’re wearing them, which usually involves more than standing still. Come here.” He drew her towards the wardrobe. “This mirror isn’t really big enough –”

“There’s no mirror big enough for me,” Brienne said glumly.

“I _mean_, you can’t see your feet, and to get the full effect you really need to be able to see from all sides,” Jaime said. “Look here.” He turned her around to face the mirror.

Brienne regarded her reflection mournfully. “I look like …”

“Now, come with me.” He drew her backwards a few steps. “And forward again. See?” With each step, the light fabric flowed and moved, outlining Brienne’s powerful legs and muscular arms before settling around her again. “You see? Although I think the dress would definitely be improved with Oathkeeper around your waist.”

Brienne stared at herself in the mirror. “Why? It needs a belt?”

“No, but you’ll be beating off every heterosexual male in the place the minute you come striding into Evenfall Hall, and a sword might come in handy.”

Brienne snorted. “Jaime.”

“I promised I would always give you an honest answer, remember?”

She nodded. “And are you? I mean, Tyrion’s made all these arrangements, and –”

“Fuck Tyrion, and Tyrion’s arrangements.” Jaime wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her back to lean against him. “I’ll cancel the whole thing this minute if that’s what you want. I’ll cloak you in silk or in denim, I’ll cloak you here or on the Isle of Faces or in some anonymous Sept with a drunken Septon, and six pigs as witnesses. I think you look absolutely astounding in this dress and I’m glad I got to see it, but if you hate it you can burn it, and I’ll help.” He kissed her neck. “We’ll recruit those miniature arsonists from Last Dark to help.”

Brienne smiled at their reflections. “Jaime. You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being absolutely serious. It might take me longer to find six pigs than to find a drunken Septon – I mean, Thoros Myr is already on his way so that’s pretty much a lock – but –”

“Jaime!” Brienne turned to glare at him, but her eyes were crinkled at the corners. “There are a hundred and something people coming to see us get cloaked tomorrow. Please take it seriously!”

“The only thing I take seriously is making you happy,” Jaime said. “And if that involves ceremonially sacrificing a dress with the assistance of pint-sized vandals while a herd of pigs look on in bemusement, I’ll absolutely –”

Brienne gave up the struggle, and began to laugh. “Jaime,” she said tenderly, and kissed him. “I don’t know if I love you despite of how ridiculous you are, or because of it.”

“I don’t really mind which,” Jaime said honestly. “Also, and this might be a bit late to tell you, but if you really don’t want to go through with it we don’t have to. I can just spend the rest of my life in an agony of anxiety that you’ll wake up one day and take off your ring –”

“Oh, shut up,” Brienne said. “And help me out of this dress before I rip it or something. Of course I want to go through with it.”

Jaime shut the door, and began to investigate the fastenings of Brienne’s dress. “It’s not too late to just make it a party – how in the Seven Hells does this come off?”

“The arms.” Brienne held her arms out to her sides. “And no. I’m not saying it doesn’t scare me, because the whole idea makes me want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head –”

Jaime realised that what he’d thought were decorative details were actually clasps, running from Brienne’s shoulders to her wrists, and began to undo them. “I can assist with that agenda. Covers over your head, covers over _my_ head …”

“Jaime, my Dad is downstairs!”

He got one arm unfastened and started on the other as Brienne clutched the fabric to her chest as if he’d never seen her naked. She wasn’t wearing a bra, which Jaime found a little distracting as he worked at the tiny golden clasps of her dress. “Given the fact that you exist, I’m fairly sure your father is familiar with what goes on between married couples.”

Brienne blushed scarlet. “Jaime!”

He chuckled. “I’m sorry. I personally am sure both I and Tyrion were conceived through artificial means. I can barely remember my mother, but my mind boggles at any woman willingly bedding Tywin Lannister.”

“Can we _never_ talk about _either_ of our fathers and bedding again?” Brienne pleaded.

The last clasp came free and Jaime tugged the dress gently from Brienne’s grasp. “You know that one day Gerion and Joanna are going to be saying exactly the same thing about us?”

Brienne turned to stare at him as he hung the dress carefully over the wardrobe door. “Gerion and Joanna?”

Jaime made sure the fabric was hanging smoothly and wouldn’t crease. “What?”

“Gerion. And Joanna. Why … what made you say that?”

He paused. “I don’t know. No, I do. You said it, I mean, Gerion. When we were north of the Wall. And I dreamed about Joanna, when I …”

“Was stoned,” Brienne said, not unkindly.

Jaime turned to look at her. “Do you remember? Your dreams, at all?”

Brienne had forgotten she was naked, or forgotten to be self-conscious about it, standing straight and tall with her arms by her side and a slight wrinkle of concentration on her forehead. “I don’t remember Gerion … I remember a baby. Not mine, I mean, not ours, but … family?”

“You said she was our granddaughter. Gerion’s daughter.” He closed the distance between them and took her hands. “And Joanna. She looked just like you, and I was sure her child would look like you too, and you were … less convinced.”

“You were angry with me,” Brienne said softly. “You gave me Oathkeeper, but you hated me.”

“That is not possible,” Jaime said firmly.

She blinked, looked away. “It sort of is. That day … I mean, the next morning. Not in my dream, but really. You were … I thought …”

“Well, you weren’t exactly sensitive,” Jaime pointed out.

Brienne’s chin jerked up. “What?”

“I gave you a priceless gift, took care of your flight home, and your response was to rub my nose in the fact that I only had one hand,” Jaime said. “I think I can be excused for being a little sharp.”

“Oh.” Gently, she took his right hand in both hers. “I didn’t mean it that way. In my dreams, your hand was – it wasn’t hurt. It was gone. You had one made of gold. And you were … maybe I said something wrong. By accident. Maybe you didn’t hate me.”

Jaime squeezed her fingers, even if only weakly with the last fingers of his maimed hand. “I’m sure I didn’t hate you, wench. After all, I threw myself in front of a dragon for you.”

Her eyes widened. “In my dream it was a bear. I was fighting a bear but I didn’t have a real sword. And you just _jumped_ in front of me.”

He smiled at her. “And then the bear ate me?”

Brienne shook her head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t dream the end but … you kissed me. And it was later, I think. It _felt_ later. It was winter, a blizzard. A blizzard at night.”

The hair on the back of Jaime’s neck stood up. “Always at night. Always night, whatever time it was.”

She nodded. “Cold. And dark. More cold, and more dark, than you could imagine. And something was coming, something … terrible. I was so frightened. I knew we were going to die.” She smiled suddenly. “And you kissed me. I was so surprised. And then it was so nice I forgot I was cold and frightened and going to die. And then you said that neither of us could die, because –”

“Because you’d promised to take me to Tarth,” Jaime said softly. “When did you promise me, do you remember? Because I’m sure I didn’t ask you to marry me until after it was all over.”

Brienne’s smile grew brilliant, and she leaned down to kiss him. “And I didn’t think you would, ever, even after we shared a bed for all those long months. Not me, not someone like me. No, I promised you when we were riding north. You were so … still. Like you’d stopped being there at all. And one day you said, when I asked you, that your life was over and you were just not dead yet and I told you –”

“That no-one’s life was over until they’d seen Tarth on a summer’s day.” It had never happened but it was as clear as a memory, Brienne’s face half-lit by a campfire, the warmth of flames against his shins and face and the chill of deep winter at his back. _I have wasted my life and all I have left is to spend my death well_. Except Brienne, brave Brienne, who would not give up or give in whatever happened, whether her fault or not, was right there beside him and Stranger fuck him blind if he’d be outdone in courage by a _wench – _

“Jaime?” Brienne asked, touching his cheek.

He blinked hard. “I think I’m having some sort of fermented auroch’s milk flashback.” 

“Alright, come and lie down.” Brienne drew him to the bed and pushed him into it. “It’s fine. You’re safe, I’m here, it’s just a bad trip.” She lay down beside him and pulled the coverlet over both of them. “You’re alright, Jaime. It’s alright.”

_It’s not that bad a trip, actually_. But her arms around him felt so good, in her bedroom in Evenfall and in all the other places he was at the same time. _Firelight against stone walls … the reflection of a pitch-torch on an ancient crypt … campfire light dim through a canvas tent … _Jaime rolled over to press his face against Brienne’s neck. “Brienne.”

“You’re safe,” she said again, running her fingers through his hair.

“You swore an oath,” he whispered against her skin. “You swore a holy oath to keep me safe.”

“I did. I do. I will. Jaime.”

“It should have been me. I should have been the one to save you.”

Brienne snorted. “What is this, the third century? You can’t be a man unless I’m a damsel in distress?”

Jaime chuckled. “I’m just not sure I can be a man _and_ be the damsel in distress.”

“But you saved me.” Brienne drew him closer. “Maybe not in the way the movies would have it. But you gave me Oathkeeper. Even in my dreams, you gave me Oathkeeper. You made Vargo Hoat say _thaphireth_. You jumped in front of a bear in my dreams and you threw yourself to the paparazzi in Moat Cailin. And … I think we only made it through that blizzard because you kissed me, you know. It gave me such courage.”

“I never would have dared if we hadn’t both been about to die,” Jaime confessed. 

“I would never have dared.” Brienne kissed his temple. “Jaime. You’re so much braver than me.”

“Pretty sure that’s not true.”

Brienne laughed softly. “Pretty sure you’re not the one freaking out about people being at our cloaking ceremony.”

“Mmm.” Jaime snaked his arm around her waist. “You’re the one who killed a dragon.”

“In your imagination. Besides, you told me you had the hard part, distracting it.”

“Well, I couldn’t let it kill you without doing _something._”

“Such an idiot,” Brienne said tenderly.

“I was careful!” He kissed her cheek. “That’s what’ll be in _Oathkeeper_, you know. Goldenhand distracting the dragon while the Blue Knight kills it.”

“Has Willas sent you a new draft?”

“I would have shown you. I need to talk to the Queen of Thorns about the effects, too.”

Brienne ran her fingers through his hair. “Won’t they do it all on a computer, after? I thought everything was done that way these days.”

“Mmm, it’s a lot harder though, acting like you’re fighting a dragon when all you can see is a pimply grip holding a pole with a tennis ball on the end of it.”

“You’ve always managed before,” Brienne pointed out.

“Yes, but it’s your first time, and I don’t want it to be any harder than it needs to be.”

“Jaime.” Brienne’s hand stilled. “I know you keep saying that you want me in the film, but I’m _not_ an actor. And I’m not … I don’t look like women who are in movies.”

“I don’t want a woman who looks like women who are in movies for my Blue Knight,” Jaime said. “I want a woman who looks like she’s spent her adult life smiting miscreants and could reasonably be believed to be able to kill a dragon.” He raised his himself on his elbow to look at her. “And I told you, acting is something you learn. Even if Willas finishes the script tomorrow and it’s perfect, and Olenna magics up finance immediately, the soonest real shooting could start would be pretty close to the end of the year, and that’s _if_ everyone’s available. By the time you’re in front of a camera, you’ll have had plenty of time to learn.”

Brienne smiled. “Oh, really. And how long did it take _you_ to learn acting?”

“Aunt Genna swears I was the best Dragon Knight she’d ever seen, and I was eight, so clearly, not that long,” Jaime said, and grinned at her when she started to laugh. “You have to say yes, wench. I can’t make _Oathkeeper_ without you, you know. The Blue Knight has to be able to fight, really fight, _you_ know it always shows when they have to fudge it for someone who can’t. There’s four big fight sequences for her, not even counting the dragon.”

“And Robb? He hasn’t … had all that much practice. But you want _him_ in your film.”

“I’m sending Sandor back to Winterfell with the Starks after the cloaking,” Jaime said. “He’ll work with Robb between now and when shooting starts, whenever that is. And he actually doesn’t have to do that much fighting, the Young Wolf is a brilliant commander, he doesn’t need to be right in the thick of the battles all the time. Or so I told Willas.” He kissed Brienne’s cheek, and then her lips. “You’re not going to be able to talk me out of it, you know. I can’t make the film with anyone else playing the Blue Knight, and I really, _really_ want to make this film.”

She drew back a little, hand on his chest. “Then you have to promise me, if I’m bad, you’ll say. That you won’t let me ruin your film because you don’t want to hurt my feelings.”

“I promise. And if Olenna takes the option to direct, you’ll have nothing to worry about, because _she’ll_ tell you.” He covered her hand with his own. “So is that yes?”

Brienne bit her lip, and then nodded. “I’ll try.”

Jaime smiled. “That’s all I ask. Now. We’re in bed, and you’re naked. Why are we talking about movies?”


	103. Jaime XL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People gather on Tarth, and a few things are said.

_Alright, well, so far this is going reasonably well_. Jaime had not been _entirely_ sure Tyrion’s suggestion that the main participants in the cloaking ceremony arrive a day early to rehearse and road-test Bronn’s glamping arrangements was altogether wise. _Starks and Lannisters in the same room …_ but Arya was talking to Sandor Clegane as if his monosyllabic replies were perfectly normal, Tyrion was deep in conversation with Robb and Jeyne Westerling about contracts – which probably meant he’d have two more clients by the end of the evening – and Shae and Catelyn Stark seemed to be as thick as thieves. Thoros Myr was talking swordplay with Brienne, and Selwyn and Sansa were deep in discussion of local governance, infrastructure spending and the challenges of funding healthcare in remote areas.

Jaime leaned back in his chair and watched Brienne using her fork to demonstrate a very small parry to Thoros and realised he needn’t have worried at all. Tarth, and the Tarths, just welcomed everyone in with a gentle kindness that it was impossible to resist.

Catelyn Stark leaned forward. “That’s a beautiful necklace, Brienne.”

Brienne coloured, and put her hand to her neck. “Oh, it’s – thank you. Jaime gave it to me.”

“It really suits you,” Catelyn said. She smiled at Jaime, and if it was a reserved smile, it wasn’t cold. “You have excellent taste.”

“Just look at my wife,” Jaime agreed, raising his glass a little to Brienne, who blushed harder. “Luckily for me, she’s much less discriminating. And thank you, by the way, for standing in for Olenna.”

“I honestly never thought I’d find myself carrying Jaime Lannister’s cloak,” Catelyn said dryly. “But Brienne deserves to have the day go perfectly. How is Olenna?”

“Not only does she swear she’s mending, but Willas does as well.”

“Good. Falls can be difficult, when you’re older.”

Jaime chuckled. “Don’t let the Queen of Thorns hear you say it. You know she was demonstrating the correct technique for dancing on a table at the time?”

“That does sound like Olenna,” Catelyn said fondly. “Robb says you and she have managed to get _Oathkeeper_ back in production?”

“Not quite yet,” Jaime said cautiously. “There’s no finance attached yet, for one thing. And … it’s not quite the same film.”

Catelyn nodded. “Robb told me. He’s very excited about the part, you know. So if Olenna wants to film at Winterfell again, tell her to call me. I looked over the script, and we do actually have family crypts you could use. And … well, there might be other places I could open up.”

“There’s this one scene,” Jaime said, before his sensible second thoughts could intervene and shut him up. “When the Young Wolf’s sister has to tell him and Rose what he has to do to end the war. Could we film it in your Sept?” Catelyn blinked, and Jaime backtracked as fast as he could. “Or take pictures, so we could recreate it. The paintings … I’d really like to have that scene in front of the paintings.”

She narrowed her eyes a little. “You’d need to recreate it anyway, though, wouldn’t you? Because you want the sister to be framed by the Stranger or maybe the Crone, and the Young Wolf by the Warrior – or the Father, perhaps – and Rose by the Mother. And they’re in the wrong places in the Sept for that to work.” She smiled at Jaime’s look of surprise. “I might have spent most of my career working in casting, but I’ve trailed around enough film sets after Ned in my life – and listened to him and his friends talk about movies enough – to have picked up a few things about visual symbolism.”

“I hadn’t thought it through that much,” Jaime said honestly. “Just that the paintings are astonishing.”

“I’ll look out the name of the painter Ned hired when I get home, and send it to you,” Catelyn offered.

“Thank you. That’s all … extremely generous.”

“Mmm.” Catelyn sipped her glass of wine. “What Robb said about the part, the new part I mean … was that it wasn’t like anything Ned had done. It bothers him, you know. He’s more like me than he is like Ned, and most of the work he gets is from directors who want to cast a young Ned Stark.”

“I wouldn’t want Ned for this, at any age,” Jaime said. “He always had this great … implacability. No-one else had that. When he walked into a scene it was like seeing a winter storm close in, unstoppable, unavoidable. I saw him, you know, on his first film. I snuck onto set, pretended my father had given permission.”

“_Eyes of Ice_?” Catelyn asked, and Jaime nodded. “We met at the premiere, you know.”

“I’d forgotten, but that’s right. Met on Smith’s Day, married on Maiden’s Day, the scandalous whirlwind teenage romance of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully.” He glanced over at Jeyne and Robb. “Are you relieved Robb hasn’t inherited his parents’ impetuousness?” 

“Oh, that’s all Jeyne,” Catelyn said dryly. “If it was up to Robb they’d have been in front of the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood long since, but Jeyne is determined to time things for the best possible publicity boost in the lead up to the Iron Thrones.” She sipped her wine. “So Ned was good, in _Eyes of Ice_? I was too busy looking at him that night to pay much attention to the movie.”

“It was the first time I’d seen someone on the film set do what a play does, make everything else disappear except the character and the lines and the scene.” Jaime shrugged. “And that was with my father ordering him back to one every few minutes and calling for the set-dresser to move a bowl two inches or demanding extra butterflies from the grips. Every time the camera rolled, Eddard Stark _was_ Ice Eyes. He was absolutely terrifying. He had that, even that young, that _presence_. But he would have been exactly wrong for the Young Wolf. If it’s impossible for the audience to doubt his … _resolve_, I guess, then there’s no tension. Robb’s not implacable. I saw that film he was in a couple of years back, the one about the Wolfswood?”

“The one that went straight to Weirflix?”

Jaime grinned. “It was fairly terrible. I’ve seen better special effects at fancy dress parties. But Robb was interesting. I wasn’t sure until the end if he was the hero being pushed to the edge by what was happening or the villain who’d gone over the edge and was _making_ it happen. Which was partly the fact that the script and the editing were atrocious, but not entirely. And that’s what I want. I want it to be a relief when he turns out to be the hero, not an inevitability.”

“Because _you’re_ the hero,” Catelyn said, a touch sharply.

Jaime gave her his best charming smile. “It’s not like I’ve had many chances to be, is it? And the Blue Knight is the real hero in _Oathkeeper_, anyway.”

“You’ll have trouble casting her,” Catelyn warned. “I’ve been thinking about it since Robb showed me the script. Victaria Tyrell is the only one I can think of who could carry the action scenes convincingly, with the height to look right, and she’s shooting _Electrum Blonde _in Yunkai from next month, and then something called _Kissed By Fire_, and then a heist film based on the Theon and Jayne myth.”

“As much as I’d like the chance to work with Victaria, I’ve already cast the Blue Knight,” Jaime said. He inclined his head towards Brienne.

Catelyn raised her eyebrows. “Can she act?”

“She can fight,” Jaime said. “I can act, Olenna can direct, and an awful lot can be fixed in post.”

“She’s just …” Catelyn paused, and Jaime opened his mouth to tell her that her opinion of Brienne’s looks was most definitely not welcome, and the closed it again when she went on, “Gentle. I mean, I know she can fight, we all watched the _One Thousand Eyes And One_ story and Arya’s shown me the RookTube videos. But will an audience believe it, if she can’t pretend to be, I don’t know … tougher?”

“And a warrior can’t be kind and fierce as the circumstances demand?” Jaime countered.

“Mmm.” Catelyn picked up her glass and studied the wine in it. “Am I showing my age?”

“Gallantry requires I deny it.”

Catelyn smiled. “I wish –” Her breath caught and she blinked, a single tear running down her cheek. “I wish Ned was here. I wish he could hear you talk about Robb’s acting.”

Jaime snorted. “I doubt he’d care about my opinion.”

“Oh, no.” Catelyn put her glass down. “Whatever he thought about _you_, he knew you had … skill. Talent. Whatever it is. We watched that movie, the one where you pushed the kid out of the window?”

Jaime nodded. “_Lady Stoneheart_.”

“That’s the one. And I woke up in the middle of the night and Ned was up. I found him downstairs, working on the car. He said he couldn’t sleep. He said …” She smiled. “He said _that Jaime fucking Lannister_. _I can’t stop thinking that I’d do exactly the same thing, for Robb or Sansa, for Arya or Bran or Rickon. How _does_ that man make child murder sympathetic?_”

“Practice,” Jaime said with a sharp smile. “I am the Kingslayer, after all. As I’m sure your husband told you.”

“He did.” Catelyn raised her glass and regarded him over the top of it. “And yet I find it hard to believe that Brienne would be quite so happy to be married to a murderer.”

“Perhaps I’ve deceived her as to my true nature,” Jaime suggested.

Catelyn threw back her head and laughed, and in that instant was once again the shockingly vital young woman who’d married Eddard Stark on three days’ acquaintance. “I’m sorry, I was talking of _Brienne Tarth_, have you met her?”

Jaime raised his eyebrows. “Tall woman, fair hair, blue eyes? Rings a bell.”

She smiled at him, the echo of laughter still in her eyes. “I should hope so. But if she’s right about you, Ned was wrong.”

“I wouldn’t say that you,” Jaime said quietly.

“I loved him with all my heart, you know.” Catelyn sipped her wine. “I always will, I think. But you were right, when you said he was … what was it, inevitable?”

“Implacable. I just meant … his performances. His style, as an actor.”

“When he was wrong, he’d admit it. Generously. Excessively. If he’d been utterly, conclusively, absolutely _proved_ to be wrong.”

Jaime tried to bite back a smile. “You knew him far better than I ever did. I couldn’t really say.”

“Was he wrong about you? About … what happened, on that film, to Aerys?”

“I have signed …” Jaime shrugged. “An entirely excessive number of NDAs about everything that even slightly touches an answer to that question. I’d need legal advice to know if I should even nod.”

“He said he found you standing over the body, the bloody knife in your hand.”

Jaime nodded. “He did.” He gave his voice Ned Stark’s northern burr. “Lannister, what have you done?”

“And what _had_ you done?” Catelyn asked softly.

He gave her a hard smile. “What someone had to, although I got no thanks.” Setting his glass down, he got to his feet. “We should get this rehearsal underway, don’t you think?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully were not a whirlwind love-match, but on the other hand, they did barely know each other when they married, and arranged marriages are probably not really a thing for modern Westerosi movie stars …


	104. Brienne XLV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rehearsal ...

“Is something wrong?” Brienne asked Jaime quietly as they walked up the hill to Evenfall Hall.

He gave her a quick smile. “No.” Taking her hand, he tangled their fingers together. “Talking to Catelyn Stark about poor dead Ned, that’s all. Apparently he thought I knew what I was doing, in front of a camera.”

“Well, he had eyes,” Brienne said stoutly, and Jaime’s smile widened a little. “Are you sure you’re alright with her stepping in for Ms Tyrell?”

“Surprisingly – even to me – yes. Aside from enjoying the fact that my father would have an apoplexy to know I was had two Starks and a Stark-to-be standing up with me at my cloaking, it’s …” He shrugged a little. “When we started _Kingslayer_, before it started going to the Seven Hells, the thing I was most excited about was working with Ned Stark. I imagined I might even impress him.” He snorted. “Which I did, I suppose, after a fashion, or at least, _made an impression_.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Is that why you cast Robb? Because of his father?”

Jaime shook his head. “Because of his mother, actually. He favours her in more than looks. Did you ever see her film?”

Brienne blinked. “She’s an actress? I thought …”

“Made one film and decided it wasn’t for her. _Wench, Interrupted_. The plot is fairly predictable, but Catelyn Tully played her character like one single exposed nerve. Robb has that, and he certainly didn’t get it from Mr Winter-is-coming Stark.” He grinned up at her. “You know what he was like? Like if Jon Snow was an actor. He had this sort of terrifying self-possession, always with the sense there was far more beneath the surface than you could see. Actually, you know what? We should put Snow in _Oathkeeper_. As an extra, if nothing else. A nod to Ned Stark.”

“Or Arya,” Brienne suggested. “Everyone says she takes after him the most of any of the kids.”

Jaime nodded. “She could die heroically in the first act, proving what the stakes are.”

They reached the gates of Evenfall Hall and Brienne hesitated, peering through them into the courtyard. “It looks … did they cut the grass?”

“I suspect they did more than that, but yes, they cut the grass.” Jaime tugged her through the gates. “Come on.”

Evenfall Hall’s courtyard was now a velvety-smooth emerald lawn. The lumps of fallen masonry that had been scattered across it the last time Brienne had seen it were gone, and the ruined walls of the main building now rose smooth and grey and solid. In the archway of the main entrance, doors of carved wood stood open, spilling light down the perfectly smooth steps leading up to it.

Brienne stood and gaped. “Jaime …”

“The stables still need repairs,” Tyrion said behind them. “But the bathhouse is working and you could even sleep in the bedrooms – if you brought an air-mattress and a sleeping bag.” He reached up to put his hand on her arm. “Consider it a belated wedding present.”

Brienne turned to stare down at him. “But … this must have cost …”

Tyrion grinned. “Oh, I have plans to recoup my investment, goodsister. Once _hashtag Lannistarth cloaking_ starts to trend on Ravengram – and believe me, it _will_ trend – I’m confident Evenfall Hall will be booked solid for weddings and cloakings next summer. The full age of ice and fire experience! Feast in the Great Hall! Bathe as if it were the third century! Spend your wedding night in the Evenstar’s bedchamber! Take recreational rides through Tarth’s scenic … scenery.” 

“Oh, Brienne, it’s gorgeous!” Sansa cried as she and her family reached them. “It’s like Florian and Jonquil are about to come out of the door any minute!”

Arya snorted. “Forget Florian and stupid Jonquil. This is somewhere the Morningstar would live.”

“You’re both wrong,” Jaime said, tugging Brienne closer. “This is Evenfall Hall, the home of the Evenstar. Home of the Blue Knight.”

“Possibly,” Brienne said. “According to some theories.”

“I have one more surprise,” Tyrion said, “although I can’t actually take credit for it. Some of the eager children gaining credit towards forging their bronze links at the citadel by digging out your ancestral armoury get that honour.” He held up his hand to her. “Goodsister. May I escort you inside?”

Dazed, Brienne nodded, and put her free hand over his. Flanked by the Lannister brothers, she climbed the repaired staircase and stepped between the gleaming oaken doors into –

_A movie set._ It was the only context she could find for it. Even Winterfell only looked like this when the set-dressers had been hard at work – the entire hall lit by elaborate arrangements of candles suspended from the roof, the stone flags as clean and smooth as silk, rows of benches polished until they shone.

“Look.” Tyrion tugged her hand, and she turned to look back at the door. On the right side of it, a banner hung, yellow suns on rose quartered with a white crescent moon on blue.

“Tarth,” Brienne whispered. “The colours of Tarth.”

“You shine,” Jaime said softly, and leaned up to kiss her cheek.

Then Brienne saw the banner on the left of the door, and her mouth dropped open. Sunset colours, a tree, and above the tree a shooting star. “What …?”

“The students found a shield under the armoury,” Tyrion said. “They did some … alchemy or something to work out what was painted on it –”

“Polarised artificial light sampling,” Brienne and Jaime said in unison.

Tyrion waved a hand. “Whatever. But that –” He pointed at the banner. “_That_ was what they found.”

“But they can’t have.” Brienne took a step closer to it, drawing Jaime with her. “They can’t have found that shield here.”

“Well, they are _students_,” Tyrion said. “But I did insist on having it confirmed by a maester.” He frowned. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Those are Ser Duncan’s arms,” Jaime answered for Brienne.

“And he was … a villain?”

Brienne snorted. “Gods be good, no. His page is one of the three from the White Book that have ever been found. He was Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He was the greatest knight of his age! There’s no way his shield would be in Evenfall’s armoury.”

Jaime began to laugh, and when Brienne turned to glare at him he laughed harder. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say at last. “But wench … he _was_ known as Duncan the _Tall_. It would explain a few things about the Tarths.”

“If he was one of the Tarths he would have been Ser Duncan of Tarth,” Brienne pointed out.

“Maybe he wasn’t one of the Tarths,” Jaime said merrily. “Maybe he just fathered a few of them.”

She swatted his arm, not gently. “He was a Kingsguard! They were sworn to celibacy!”

“He wasn’t _born_ one, though, was he?” Jaime said reasonably. “Maybe he visited Tarth when he was young and –”

Brienne put her fingers over his lips. “Do not make an improper joke about Ser Duncan the Tall!”

“Clearly, I’ve missed the most interesting part of the evening,” Arthur Dayne said from the doorway. He turned and looked up at the banners. “And I agree with your wife, Jaime. If there are any improper jokes to be made, they’ll be made by me, thank you. Apologies for my lateness, but I couldn’t abandon a damsel in distress, let alone two.”

“Brienne!” Margaery Tyrell cried, striding into the hall and going up onto her tiptoes to fling her arms around the taller woman. “Thank goodness for Arthur, Arianne and I missed our flight and there wasn’t a single pilot willing to bring us, until I made them radio Arthur and he diverted to pick us up.”

Brienne blinked, and looked at Arthur Dayne. “You fly a seaplane?”

“Helicopter,” he said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “I learned for _Quest Impossible_, and it seemed like a useful thing to keep up. I hope we haven’t missed the rehearsal, as well as dinner?”

“If you’re hungry, I can run down –” Brienne started.

“No, no, darling, this is _your_ rehearsal,” Margaery said quickly. “And besides, Arthur had an emergency stock of barley bars in the helicopter. We’re all perfectly able to soldier on. Are you going the traditional route, then, with your father walking you in? Or will you and Jaime come in together?”

“Together,” Jaime said firmly, taking Brienne’s hand again. “With my goodfather, and my Aunt Genna – she couldn’t be here tonight.”

“And the Septon will be up there?” Margaery pointed to the other end of the Great Hall, where the high table would have stood in the past.

“That’s me,” Thoros said, raising his hand. “Although technically I’m not –”

“Perfect, dear, off you go.” Margaery patted his arm and shoved him in the right direction. “Who has the cloaks?”

“Me.” Sandor Clegane held up the bag he was carrying as easily as if it had been filled with feathers and not forty pounds of wool and satin.

Margaery clapped her hands together. “Perfect. Now, I think we should ignore the stairs for tonight – we don’t want last minute grass-stains – and just start at the doors. Yes?”

“She’s terrifying,” Brienne whispered to Jaime as they were shepherded back to the entrance.

He grinned at her. “She’s Olenna Tyrell’s granddaughter, what did you expect?”

Arianne, Sansa, Margaery and Catelyn lifted the bride’s cloak from the bag. Brienne had expected it to be white, as a traditional maiden’s cloak would have been, but instead it was a shimmering blue, with silver crescent moons and golden suns changing places along a border of rose pink. As the women held it carefully clear from the floor for Jeyne to fasten it at Brienne’s shoulders, Robb Stark and Arthur Dayne took up the groom’s cloak in its Lannister crimson. Tyrion and Sandor helped hold it up and Selwyn fixed the clasps for Jaime.

“There you go, goodson,” he said, resting a hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “You look very fine.”

Brienne saw Jaime blink hard as Sansa came to stand next to him. “I’ll pretend to be your aunt,” she said. “Should I stoop, or hobble or something?”

Jaime assured her that his Aunt Genna neither stooped nor hobbled, and they waited while the two sets of attendants swapped sides. It was an attenuated, and gender-neutral, modern version of what had probably happened in the age of ice and fire, the bride’s sisters and mother helping to garb her for her wedding and then her male relatives escorting her to her husband’s side. Now Arthur Dayne and Sandor, Tyrion and Robb, took their places holding Brienne’s cloak clear of the stone flags, while Catelyn’s sharp eyes and sharper tongue made sure Margaery, Arianne and Jeyne Westerling assisted her to do the same.

“You’ve got one verse and the coda to get to the Septon,” Margaery said. “I’ll hum for you. Mmm-hmm-hmmm. Hmm-hmm-hmm.” She paused. “Jaime, Brienne, you’re supposed to be _walking_. I’ll start again.”

Brienne concentrated on not tripping over her own feet as the whole pack of them started forward, with a certain amount of shuffling as the cloak-bearers got the hang of keeping the right distance from each other to let the cloaks drape gracefully. Her dad had his chin raised proudly, beaming as if this were the actual cloaking ceremony itself. Jaime, _of course_, had assumed a comically exaggerated expression of pious devotion as he paced solemnly towards Thoros Myr. He glanced sideways and caught Brienne’s glare, answering it with a wicked grin.

“Hmm-hmm-hmm. Hmmm-hmmm! Stop!” Margaery finished, and, not quite in unison – the actors halted immediate on their marks, while everyone else shuffled a little – they all stopped. “Well. We can work on that. Now, ceremony, ceremony, ceremony, blah-blah, join hands – well, go on, join hands!”

Brienne reached out and took Jaime’s strong left hand in hers.

He squeezed her fingers. “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” he said, his trained voice rich and resonant in the huge hall. “And take you for my wife.”

Brienne’s own voice sounded small and husky in her ears. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my husband.”

She would not have put it past Jaime to make an embarrassing display of the kiss, but instead he only pressed his lips gently against hers, chaste and tender.

“And the cloaks,” Margaery prompted. “Sansa, Mr Tarth, go on.”

Her father unfastened the clasps at Brienne’s shoulders and the weight of her not-quite maiden’s cloak lifted. On her tiptoes, Sansa did the same service for Jaime. There was a moment’s confusion as both Brienne and Jaime, and their cloak-bearers, began to switch sides, quickly sorted out by a sharp word from Margaery. The cloaks stayed where they were, and Brienne went to stand in front of the crimson cloak with its golden lions while Jaime took her place beside Selwyn.

“The colours suit you,” Brienne heard her father say as he secured the Tarth cloak.

“I should say the same,” Sansa whispered as Brienne stooped a little for the smaller woman to do the same for her. “But the Lannister arms are so _tacky_.”

Brienne managed not to laugh. _They are, a bit_. She could just imagine all the past Lannisters of song and story glaring at the young Northerner girl who said what people had no doubt been thinking for generations. _All that gilt and crimson, boasting of the gold they spent and the blood they spilt. So _tacky_. _

“You and Jaime should make your own.” Sansa got the second clasp in place. “The Lannistarth colours. An evening star, white on blue, quartered with …” She smiled. “A movie camera or something.”

“Sansa,” Catelyn said firmly. “Are you finished?”

“Yes, Mum.” She stepped back.

“And then the Septon will make the declaration, blah blah blah,” Margaery said. “And you turn –”

There was a crash from behind them. Brienne spun, almost tripping over her cloak, to see the leaves of the great door flung wide, the Great Hall still echoing with the noise of them slamming open against the stone walls. Framed between them was a tall, lean, broad-shouldered man. His bald head gleamed in the candlelight as he glared at the scene before him.

It was only when he spoke, and she recognised the clipped, imperious tones from interviews and documentaries, that Brienne realised who he was.

“What,” Tywin Lannister with icy incredulity, “is the meaning of this mummer’s farce?”


	105. Tyrion VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin is ... Tywin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warning for … Tywin. In all his Tywin-ness. And plagiarism alert: the next few chapters will contain a number of lines you will no doubt recognise from both ASOIAF and GOT … remixed to new purpose. And … I don’t usually say this but given the strangeness of the times we live in, I ask my readers to trust me over the next little bit and stick with it!

_Oh, Crone’s chilly cunt._ Tyrion closed his eyes for a second, but when he opened them again his father was still there, no hallucination but the Old Lion himself, in the flesh, wearing the expression of disdainful contempt that Tyrion remembered so well from his childhood.

Tyrion took a deep breath, stepped around Jaime – who seemed frozen in place – and stood in front of him. “Father. This is a _private_ event, and one to which I am quite certain you were _not_ invited.”

Tywin Lannister had always had the gift of silence, deployed to intimidating effect whenever Tyrion disappointed him –_ every morning when he discovered I hadn’t died in my sleep, for example_ – and he deployed it now, pacing forward one slow stride after another. Finally he stopped, letting his cold, yellow-flecked gaze flick dismissively over each of the people in front of him, one by one. “Be quiet, Tyrion. Jaime, remove that ridiculous cloak. No son of mine will wear another’s colours –”

“I do recall you saying … what was it?” Jaime drawled. “Oh yes. _I have no son._”

“Don’t be so tediously childish,” Tywin snapped. “And you, madam or mister or whatever-you-are. Take off my family’s colours _immediately_.”

“You are speaking to my _wife_,” Jaime snarled, moving closer to Brienne.

“And my daughter,” Selwyn added, his voice a low rumble.

Tywin dismissed that with a flick of his fingers. “Jaime. Enough of this absurdity. You and I have matters to discuss. _Family_ matters.”

“Mr Lannister, surely it can wait?” Margaery asked sweetly. “We’re just in the middle of –”

“Making my son look like a patch-faced fool, yes, I can see that. One jester in the family is quite enough.”

Jaime put his hand on Tyrion’s shoulder. “I can only presume you’re speaking of your own comical performance tonight? _Family matters_, father? From the man who left me to die at the hands of the Brave Companions? Wasn’t that a _family matter_?”

“You were always prone to exaggeration –” Tywin started, and Jaime took a long stride past Tyrion, dragging his cloak away from Robb and Arthur Dayne, his fists clenching.

“I was there, _father_. When Vargo Hoat broke half the bones in my hand to send _you_ a message. When the only reason the Night’s Watch even knew to look for us was that _Brienne’s_ father raised the alarm.”

“Nonsense,” Tywin said firmly. “Even you couldn’t be so childish as to hold me responsible for the actions of some gang of thugs, and I would have had the matter well in hand if not for the meddling of your brother and that old fool Tarth. One can’t simply accede to the first demands presented to one. I would have hoped you’d have learnt that by now.”

“Jaime.” Brienne had managed to free herself from her Lannister cloak, and came to stand beside Jaime, taking his right hand in both of hers. “Mr Lannister, I’d say it was a pleasure to finally meet my goodfather, but since you’ve made yourself as unpleasant as possible, I’ll forgo the polite fiction.” Her voice shook a little, but when Tyrion turned to look, Brienne’s chin was lifted and her expression firm. “Tyrion was correct when he said that this is a private event, and that you’re not invited. And further, let me point out that you stand in Evenfall Hall as you dismiss the Evenstar and insult his daughter. I can’t force you to become a decent father to your sons, Mr Lannister, but I must insist you apologise to my father before you _leave_.”

Tywin’s eyebrows rose. Tyrion wondered if anyone had ever spoken to his father like that in Tywin’s entire adult life. _Or even in his childhood. _“Well, Miss Tarth. I see that your pathetic gratitude for my son’s attentions have inspired considerable loyalty.” His lips thinned. “Even if very little wisdom.”

“Tywin, that is quite enough, even for you,” Catelyn Stark said sharply. “Gods be good, there is a line between irascible eccentric and intolerable boor and I think you’ll find it _behind_ you.”

“You might think that your widowed status grants you immunity to my irritation, Mrs Stark,” Tywin said, “But I remind you your son has a career ahead of him. At … the moment.”

All four Starks bristled at the implicit threat, but Catelyn spoke first. “Ned might have owed you a great deal in his career,” she said coldly. “I concede that. But Robb is his own man, with his own career, and I swear, Tywin Lannister, if you harm his chances I’ll see to it that you’ll book nothing but B-List talent for the rest of your life. On my honour as Tully, on my honour as a Stark, leave him be!”

“As dramatic as ever,” Tywin sneered with every ounce of his aristocratic heritage. He snapped his fingers. “Jaime. Come. This is not a discussion you want to have in public.”

Even after all these years, Tyrion felt himself twitch in response to that particular edge to his father’s voice. He felt Jaime stiffen, his hand tightening on Tyrion’s shoulder. “I don’t really think we have anything to say to each other, father.”

Tywin’s mouth tightened. “Very well.” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and brought out an envelope. Taking one long stride forward, he reached over Tyrion’s head and slapped it against Jaime’s chest. “Consider yourself served.”


	106. Jaime XLI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is Tywin up to? Jaime wants to know, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, sorry these latest ones have been shorter than usual, I always break at a POV change and I needed a few here. I hope my resumed regular posting makes up for it! (If you're reading this in 2021, as you were ... )

As Tywin let the envelope go, Jaime grasped at it reflexively to keep it from falling to the floor. The fingers of his good left hand felt as weak and numb as if he’d used his right. “Served?”

“A process server, father?” Tyrion’s voice dripped acid. “The mighty Lannister Lion is little more than an alley cat now, it seems.”

“When something is important, Tyrion, it’s always wise to see to it yourself,” their father said. “A lesson you’ve yet to learn, with your … _associates._”

Jaime stared down at the envelope. “Served with _what_?”

Brienne squeezed his hand as Tyrion turned and plucked the envelope from Jaime’s grasp. “Allow your lawyer to deal with this,” he said, tore the envelope open and scanned the page inside. When he’d finished, he looked up at their father with such loathing that for a moment, Jaime could barely recognise the little brother he’d known since the day of his birth. “You wouldn’t.”

“I will do whatever is the interest of this family,” Tywin bit out. “Something neither you nor your brother have ever understood.”

“That you have no ability to comprehend _going too far_?” Tyrion shot back. “Oh, I think we both grasp the concept.”

“The interest of the family, and the Lannister legacy,” Tywin ground out.

“The only Lannister whose legacy concerns you is _you_, father,” Tyrion said. “That’s been made abundantly clear to Jaime and I over the years.” He glared down at the letter in his hand. “The only Lannister whose well-being matters to you as well, it seems.”

“Tyrion.” Jaime’s voice sounded distant to his own ears. “Tyrion, what does it say?” Brienne was squeezing his hand but he could barely feel her grip against the dead nerves of his crippled fingers. “Tyrion.”

“Let’s go outside,” his little brother said. “For once, our father is right. This is a private family matter.”

The words filled him with dread, although he couldn’t have said of what, but it was less the words and more the very even, measured tone of Tyrion’s voice that made Jaime’s stomach roil and his skin prickle. He’d heard his brother speak like that before, although over the phone rather than in person.

_Jaime, are you watching the television? No, _don’t_ turn it on. Listen, something’s happened. Joffrey’s done something. _

Numbly, he nodded, and raised his hands to fumble at the clasps of Brienne’s cloak over his shoulders. They were as clumsy as if they belonged to someone else.

“Let me,” Brienne said softly, and helped him. She lowered the cloak and bundled it in her arms, a shimmering mass of rose and blue and gold and white, echoing the pink of her sweet plump lips, the different tones of her white-gold hair, the radiant sapphire of her eyes. “Do you want me to come with you?”

His stomach twisted at the thought of his father might say to her, absent even the slim awareness of propriety imposed by the presence of her friends and family. _Madam or mister or whatever-you-are _… his father had always had an unerring instinct for the weakest point of anyone’s armour, the vulnerability most likely to wound irreparably. “No.” He managed a smile. “Why don’t you take your guests back down to the house? I’m sure Arthur, at least, would appreciate something more substantial than barley bars to eat.”

A frown drew her eyebrows together as her gaze searched his face, but she nodded. “Alright. See you in a little while.”

“In a little while,” Jaime agreed.

He left her there, standing in the Evenstar’s home, holding the Evenstar’s cloak, and followed Tywin Lannister out through the door.


	107. Tyrion VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Tywin wants ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warning for … Tywin. In all his Tywin-ness. And for Joanna’s death, altered slightly to take into account modern medicine.  
I couldn't keep you all in suspense for another 24 hours, so please, reward me with extra comments! (I write for myself, I publish for feedback!)

Tywin led the way across the courtyard, his long legs making nothing of the distance, and strode up the old stone stairs leading to the ramparts. As he struggled not to fall too far behind, grimly aware that the effort to hurry made him waddle comically, Tyrion wondered whether it was worse to think his father hadn’t considered his younger son’s stature in setting the pace, or that Tywin _had_ considered it and set out to deliberately humiliate him.

“Tyrion,” Jaime said, behind him, and Tyrion turned to see his brother sauntering so slowly it was positively insolent. “Fuck him.”

For a moment they were both young again, when the worst they feared from their father was his icy rage, and the limit of their rebellion was to keep him waiting. Tyrion slowed his own steps, and the brothers climbed the steep steps side-by-side.

Tywin stood framed between two crenellations of the battlements, feet firmly planted and his hands clasped behind his back, as he had used to stand behind his desk in his study when one or both his sons had been summoned for admonition. Jaime strolled past him and took his own studied pose, lounging against the stone wall, all careless impudence. “What was in the letter, father?”

“A court order compelling you to provide a genetic sample,” Tywin said crisply.

“Finally convinced I’m truly _not_ your son?” Jaime drawled.

“To provide evidence for a custody suit,” Tyrion said, before their father could put it in the cruellest terms he could manage. _And Tywin Lannister can manage a great deal of cruelty, even without trying._ “Jaime. Father has gone to the courts seeking legal custody of Tommen and Myrcella.”

“On what …” Jaime’s voice trailed away. He swallowed convulsively. “On what grounds?”

“Oh, don’t be a greater fool than you were born,” Tywin snapped. “If those disgusting rumours about you and Cersei are true, and you’ve admitted that they are, then those children are Lannisters. _Lannisters_, not Baratheons. As is perfectly obvious to anyone with eyes, quite frankly. It’s unacceptable that they be raised by that second-rate hack Stannis and his crazed hippy of a wife, let alone associate with that disfigured daughter of theirs.”

Jaime barked out a bitter laugh. “Oh, and they’d be so much better with _you_? Don’t you think they’ve been through enough already?”

Tywin’s lips thinned. “They will be well provided for, and raised to understand their family heritage and their responsibility to continue it.”

“They’ll be dragged through the courts and splashed on the front page of every tabloid in the Seven Kingdoms!” Jaime snarled.

“I didn’t create this situation, Jaime,” Tywin said coolly. “That credit goes entirely to you and your inability to behave with even a modicum of decency and responsibility. But here we are. You fathered three children, my _grandchildren_, and although no judge in his right mind would award their custody to _you_, they are family, and must be where they belong.”

“You …” Jaime started forward, fists clenched, sheer murder in his eyes. For half-a-heartbeat Tyrion thought _I could just say father slipped and fell, I’m a witness of good character and would probably be believed_ … but if causing the death of a man he hardly knew had shattered Jaime, what would killing his father do to him?

Tyrion stepped between them. “Jaime. This is a legal matter, which I’m sure has a legal solution. _Jaime_.” _Stranger fuck me sideways, why didn’t I pay more attention in family law class? _Old Archmaester Walgrave droning on with all the riveting appeal of a bumblebee battering itself to death against a windowpane, and Tyrion’s young head filled with dramatic last-minute appeals and brilliant cross-examinations … _The legal parentage of a child has always been held to be … _To be what?

“You can’t do this,” Jaime said over Tyrion’s head. “I will not allow you to do this.”

“I’ll enjoy watching you try to stop me, and fail,” Tywin retorted. “Although, of course, if you feel so _very _strongly …”

And there it was, Tywin Lannister at his worst. _Damn you to each and every one of the Seven Hells, father_. Of course the great man had no interest in the children, beyond what bargaining power his threat to their well-being could give him. _ I walked away from him, well, no matter, being as I am. But Jaime, golden Jaime … _ “What do you want?” Tyrion asked bluntly.

“As always, I want what’s best for –”

“For _you_, father, let’s none of us pretend we’re strangers. _What _do you_ want_? To drop the custody suit and leave Tommen and Myrcella where they are?” _Safe and cared for and possibly even happy_.

Tywin’s nostrils flared and if he hadn’t already been standing ramrod straight he would have no doubt have drawn himself up to his full height to look down on his youngest son even more effectively. Then, dismissing him, he raised his gaze to Jaime. “You’re making a movie with that Tyrell woman.”

“_Oathkeeper_,” Jaime said slowly. “What does that have to do with –”

“This foolishness of yours over something I had nothing to do with has gone on long enough,” Tywin snapped. “I will no longer tolerate you insolently making it clear you’ll work with every one of my rivals rather than, as you should, appearing in _my_ films. You’re a Lannister! Casterly is where you belong. You will tell Olenna that her services are no longer required because _I_ will be directing this _Oathkeeper_ – although the title will have to change –”

Jaime gave a thin smile that, for a moment, made him look a little like Tywin. “Small problem, father. Olenna’s condition on releasing the rights to me was that she retain the option to direct.”

“I’m sure Tyrion can resolve that,” Tywin said. “It’s about time he was good for something.”

Having drafted the contract himself, Tyrion _was_ sure he could resolve the problem. _If I want to._ “Aside from the Queen of Thorns, the production is lousy with Tyrells and their friends,” he pointed out. “Half the main cast will walk if you replace her.”

“Let them.” Tywin’s tone was dismissive. “They can be replaced.”

“Willas wrote most of those parts, rewrote them anyway, to the strengths of the cast,” Jaime protested. “Losing them means there’ll be practically no-one except Brienne and I –”

Tywin narrowed his eyes. “Oh, yes, _that_. That creature will be in neither _my_ film nor _your_ bed, do you understand? I won’t have either of us made a mockery of by your insatiable need to provide a headline-grabbing sensation.” He shook his head a little. “Thank the Seven I arrived tonight and not tomorrow. You’ll insist she returns your ring, the marriage will be annulled, and this little charade will be over.”

Jaime’s eyes flashed. “I’ll do no such –”

“Or you can take the blood test, and let matters take their course.” Tywin’s tone brooked no argument.

_And of course Jaime won’t do that_. Whether Tywin’s suit would be successful, and Tyrion very much doubted that it would – _legal parentage, that’s the key, that’s what old Walgrave was blithering on about, _legal_ as opposed to _biological_ parentage –_ Tommen and Myrcella would pay the price. _Something Jaime will never allow._

“You can’t ask me to do that to Brienne,” Jaime said, his voice quiet and hollow, no conviction in the denial. Both of Tywin’s sons knew what their father could, and would, do. “You can’t. She –”

“Jaime, wait in the courtyard while I talk to father,” Tyrion said quietly. “Jaime.”

His brother blinked, looking down at him as if Tyrion was speaking High Valyrian or perhaps Dothraki, some language he’d heard of but never heard. Tyrion had seen that particular expression on Jaime’s face before, had surprised it all too often in the first weeks after _Kingslayer _fell apart and his golden big brother had come home looking younger than his seventeen years, and older than them at the same time. At nine, Tyrion had had no idea what was wrong, hadn’t even heard the name _Aerys Targaryen_ until years later, but he’d know his brother and he’d known that something _was_ wrong, badly, badly wrong.

_I’ll take you riding later,_ the promise made in a flat, dragging voice that had nothing of Jaime’s boundless enthusiasm and energy in it, as his brother turned his face back to his pillow and pulled the covers higher. _In a little while, Tyrion. Later._ And all with that odd distant expression, as if he wasn’t really there at all, not really, not in any way that mattered. 

He reached up to take his brother’s hand. “Jaime. Go down to the courtyard for a moment, please?”

After a moment Jaime nodded, and turned to the stairs.

Tyrion waited until he was out of earshot. “You’ve outdone yourself, father.” He took little pleasure in admitting their relationship, but the fact that it enraged Tywin made it worth it. “How long have you been scheming to bring Jaime back into your orbit? And finally two innocent children – and my brother’s tender heart – provide you with the means.”

“There is a tool for every task, and a task for every tool.”

“How nice that even _you_ have a use,” Tyrion said.

Tywin sniffed. “Still enamoured with your own cleverness, I see?”

“As much in love as you are with your precious legacy,” Tyrion shot back. “If you cared as much for Jaime – oh, don’t worry, father, I exclude myself from _all_ your calculations – but if you cared as much for _Jaime_, your golden boy, as you do for burnishing your record as an _auteur_, he’d still have the use of _both_ his hands.” 

Every once in a very long while, Lord Tywin Lannister would actually threaten to smile; he never did, but the threat alone was terrible to behold. “He seems to be doing well enough. Doran Martell is telling everyone who’ll listen that Jaime gave the performance of his life in _Once Upon A Time In Dorne_. Perhaps this challenge is what he needed to finally grow up and become the man he was always meant to be. A decade or so late, but still.”

“Why can’t you simply let him be?” Tyrion demanded. “He’s _happy_, father. He _loves_ Brienne. He finally has a career worth his talents!”

“_Love_,” Tywin scoffed.

“Yes, father, _love_, that emotion that most people feel toward, for example, their children, and which you only feel towards yourself.”

Tywin took a stride forward, and Tyrion had to force himself not to step back as his father loomed over him. “Is this to be yet another tedious repeat of the self-pitying complaints of your childhood?”

“You never showed me an ounce of kindness or affection –”

“And why should I?” Tywin spat. “Affection, for _you?_ Who killed your mother to come into the world?”

“You will never admit the role you played –”

“_I_ played?” It was Tywin’s best Lannister roar. “How dare you –”

“Where were you?” Tyrion roared back, straight up into his father’s face. “Finishing the edits on, what was it? _Smiles of a Summer Knight?_ Wrapped up in finishing some frothy romantic comedy –”

“I’ll have you know the Iron Throne judges consider it one of the hundred best films of all time!”

“While Jaime found his mother haemorrhaging on the bathroom floor!”

There was silence.

“_You_ killed her,” Tywin said at last. “It was you –”

“With my tiny little fists, flailing away within the womb?” Tyrion shook his head. “Oh, no, _father_. None of us will ever know if Mother would have lived if you’d been there when she collapsed, but we _all_ know that she would at least have died with more than her eight-year-old son to hold her hand – and hold her newborn babe.” _Eight_. He’d always known it, but for the first time Tyrion truly felt the weight of it. _Tommen is older now than Jaime was, that day. _

“_You_.” Tywin’s voice lowered to a menacing growl. “_You_ are an ill-made, spiteful little creature full of envy, lust, and low cunning. The laws give you the right to bear my name since I cannot prove that you are not mine, but you are not, you have never been, a son of mine.”

“Now, father, I believe that once again you’re wrong.” All Tyrion’s fury and his despairing fear for Jaime, for Jaime’s children, melted away, replaced by a cold rage greater than he’d ever felt on behalf of himself, even in the worst of his childhood. “In fact, I do believe that I’m you entirely, if writ somewhat small. So as I make you this promise, consider how you’d fulfill it if made _by_ you. Every harm you do to my brother, to his children, to his love, I will repay with interest. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow. But there will come a day when you think yourself safe, and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid.”

For once in his life, Tywin Lannister was speechless.

Turning on his heel, Tyrion left him there, framed against the night sky by the cold grey stones of the battlements, and went down to see what he could do to repair the damage Tywin had wrought.


	108. Tyrion IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion might not have a plan, but he's determined to come up with one.

He found Jaime in the courtyard, still with that disquieting distance in his gaze.

“Tyrion,” his brother said slowly. “You have to tell her. I can’t – you have to tell her.”

Tyrion took his hand. “We’ll talk about it. But come with me, now.”

At Tyrion’s gentle pressure, Jaime stumbled after him. “Where?”

“Away,” Tyrion said succinctly. “Because father will be coming down those stairs, just as soon as he recovers from the shock of being told the truth, and if I meet him again right now I’ll end up charged with kinslaying, which will reduce my utility to you in future legal matters.”

He led Jaime out of the courtyard, out into the wide open sweep of the hillside that dropped down to Evenfall village, where Selwyn Tarth’s house sparkled with lights – both in the windows and strung among the trees. Laughter and music drifted up on the breeze, and figures too far away to identified spun and turned and joined hands and parted again.

To the right was the great darkness of the night ocean. and Tyrion led Jaime that way, not stopping until they were well away from the path. “Jaime.” 

“I can’t tell her,” his brother said again. “She – will you do it?”

“Sit down with me a moment first.” Tyrion tugged on his hand, gently and then more firmly until Jaime subsided on the thick grass. Tyrion knelt beside him. “Jaime. Jaime?”

“I thought I’d got my own life.” Jaime’s voice was barely audible. “It wasn’t all that much of a life, for the most part, but it was mine, not _his_.” He shook his head. “So much for that.”

“No, Jaime, listen –”

“I can’t let him hurt them,” Jaime said distantly. “I can’t do that.”

“No, I’m not saying you should –”

“So that’s it. That’s the rest of my life. At father’s beck and call.”

Stop it,” Tyrion said sharply. “Don’t you dare just give in to him, don’t you dare!”

“I’ve never been able to stop him –”

“My childhood begs to disagree with you.” Tyrion wrapped his hands around Jaime’s forearm. “Jaime. Look at me, and listen, actually listen.” He waited until his brother’s head lifted. “For right now, just right now, he has the whip hand. Temporarily, Jaime, are you paying attention? _Temporarily._”

“You have tell Brienne. I – oh, gods, Tyrion, I _can’t!_” Jaime buried his face his hands. “She’ll – ”

“Understand when you tell her you have to postpone things until father is dealt with,” Tyrion said, and Jaime looked up, brow furrowed. “Yes, _postpone_, whatever father said. I said he had the whip hand _for now_, Jaime. Do you really think I’d stand by and let him hurt Tommen and Myrcella, hurt Brienne, hurt _you_?”

“But what can you do?” Jaime whispered. “What can _anyone_ do, when father –” 

“_So_ pleased with your faith in me,” Tyrion shot back, and startled Jaime into a ghost of a smile. “I don’t know what I can do, and that’s the truth, but believe me, I won’t stop until I find out. And, dear brother, in case your affection has blinded you, I’m far worse than our father could ever aspire to be when I choose.”

Jaime’s smile flickered a little wider. “Worse than father?”

“You inherited his talent – or gift, or whatever – when it comes to film. I inherited his ruthlessness. But I have the advantage over him, brother mine.” Tyrion squeezed Jaime’s arm. “Our father knows how to hate, and how to hold a grudge, and how to demand his own way, and all those lessons I learned well. But _you_, big brother, taught me what it is to be loved and to love, and believe me, that makes me capable of monstrosities father could never dream of.”

“Tyrion.” Jaime covered Tyrion’s hand with his own. “What am I going to do?”

“Play along, for now. Let him think he’s won.”

Jaime gave a gusty sigh that was almost a sob. “For how long? How long do I have to …”

“I don’t know,” Tyrion said honestly. “I truly don’t, Jaime, I’d tell you if I did. I’ve entertained myself thwarting father from time to time over the years but I’ve never truly set myself against him, and I have no idea how long it will take me to ruin him.”

Jaime stared at him. “Ruin him?”

“Yes, Jaime, what did you think I was talking about, rational negotiation with _father_? I came to terms with how he treated me, although I wouldn’t say I forgive it, for the sake of building a life that was better than merely _endurable_. He was out of our lives, and I was content to leave it that way. Well, he’s put himself back in them, and he can live with the consequences.”

“Brienne.” Jaime put his head back in his hands. “Brienne will have to live with the consequences. Seven Hells, Tyrion … I never should have allowed myself to pretend that I was free of him, never should have – gods be good, this is what my life is going to be now, without Brienne, at father’s beck and call – ”

Tyrion sighed, recognising the familiar signs of Jaime beginning to wallow. “You did nothing but live your life,” he tried, although generally once Jaime started down the path of self-pity he was deaf to all rational argument. “It’s him, Jaime. It’s father’s spite and his gods-damned need to control everything and everyone around him to blame, not you having the perfectly reasonable expectation that an adult might make their own decisions.”

“I never even warned her.” Jaime’s voice broke. “How could I have been so stupid, Tyrion, to not even _warn_ her that this could happen? What am I going to _tell_ her?”

“How about the fucking truth?” Tyrion said sharply. “How about, Brienne, my father is a cold-rolled cunt, and to prevent him turning the lives of two innocent children and Joffrey into a tabloid circus, we have to pretend to be apart for a while?”

Jaime shook his head. “You don’t know her, Tyrion. Not really. She’ll either believe me, and go straight to father to take him head on, or she won’t. She’ll think I’m looking for an excuse to back out of it – you can’t imagine how badly she can think of herself –”

“Oh, no, I’m sure I couldn’t possibly,” Tyrion said, lacing his tone with as much sarcasm as he could manage. “The perils of looking unusual by the standards of contemporary society are _completely_ lost on me.”

That _did_ get through to Jaime, and he had the grace to look abashed. “I just mean – she’ll think I’m like those assholes on _Pretty in Platemail, _or the little shit who gave her roses. That I didn’t mean it. That I _never_ meant it.”

“Jaime, you mean _everything_, and if she knows you even a little she’ll know that.”

His brother shook his head, his over-long hair and his beard giving him something of the look of a lion vexed by a fly. “I’ve meant very little that I’ve said or done for the past decade, and Brienne knows that –”

“You meant it _all_,” Tyrion corrected. “You meant it far too much, the way you always mean everything. People called you the Kingslayer, so _fine,_ you decided to be the Kingslayer with everything you had. Cersei told you that you loved her and so you loved her, heart and soul. It wasn’t until I was at the Citadel that I realised that not all big brothers were as loyal, and devoted, and just fucking _there_, as you were for me –”

“Crone’s cunt, don’t make that my _virtue_,” Jaime said sharply. “It wasn’t some sort of _sacrifice –_”

“_I know_,” Tyrion shot back, just as sharply. “It was –” He sighed. “You know, when I’m with you is the only time I miss our mother.

“Our mother?” Jaime’s forehead wrinkled. “_I_ barely remember her. Her perfume – ”

“Citrus and cinnamon, yes. You told me.”

“I think she sang to me.” Jaime paused. “Hush and away, hush and away. I remember singing it to you, but I don’t remember learning it. And I remember … a kite. I remember her teaching me to fly a kite. It was shaped like a dragon. But not much more than that. Moments – glimpses. Her in the kitchen, or in the garden. And I – _I_ don’t miss her, not really, except as an idea.”

Tyrion took his brother’s hand. “You had her for eight years. I know you, Jaime, and I know our father, and so I know how much of you comes from her. That’s why I miss her, when I’m with you – because I can see what she was like, in what she made you, in the differences between you and me.”

Jaime shook his head a little. “You’re not making any sense, little brother.”

“No, I suppose I’m not.” _Not to you, dear brother. Which is my point, I suppose. _“Jaime. Here’s what you need to do. Tell Brienne the truth, so she understands that the lord of the seven hells in this situation is father and not you. Postpone your cloaking, and pretend to go along with our father’s sudden desire to direct the movie you’ve put your heart and soul into. _Play along_, Jaime, and buy me time to fix this.”

“_Fix_ this.” Jaime shook his head. “Tyrion …”

Tyrion took his both his own. “I will make it alright, Jaime. Just like you always did for me. I will make it alright.”


	109. Brienne XLVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime tells Brienne.

“The secret is the lemon,” Brienne told Arthur Dayne as she served him a second helping of the fish she’d quickly pulled out of the fridge and grilled for him, Margaery, and Arianne. “And clarifying the butter, of course.”

“Of course,” Arthur said gravely. He glanced over at Selwyn. “And excellent fish, as well. Is this cod?”

“Halibut,” Selwyn said, beaming. “Caught it myself. Fought so hard I wasn’t sure which of us was going to come out alive.”

Brienne snorted gently. “Dad, I filleted it myself. It wasn’t more than four foot.”

“Four fierce feet,” her father said. “Have some more of the salad, Arthur. Abelar brought it over today, it’s a family recipe.”

“It’s excellent,” Arthur Dayne said, and seemed to mean it, although, Brienne reflected, he was after all a trained actor. “I confess I’m amazed that Tarth isn’t filled with a profusion of restaurants, if you all cook like this. I know plenty of people who’d fly further than from King’s Landing to Tarth and back for a meal like this.”

“It’s the roads,” Selwyn and Sansa said in unison, glanced at each other, and smiled.

“Do not start talking about potholes,” Brienne said firmly. “It’s bad enough that you’ve got my husband obsessed with local transport infrastructure –”

“But it’s _important_, Brienne,” Sansa protested. “People always pay attention when it’s health-care, or education, but how do people get to the doctor or kids get to school? On roads! And they’re always the last priority in every local government election, the thing no-one reports on –”

“Except you,” Arya said. “Didn’t your editor say he’d sack you if you wrote one more story about the crucial difference between asphalt and bitumen?”

“He did not!” Catelyn drew herself up in her chair, eyes flashing. “Sansa, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Mum …”

Brienne smiled, and slipped out of the kitchen door onto the back porch as Catelyn began to threaten unspecified reprisals against the editor of the _Freefolk Fortnightly_. She leaned against the railing, letting the sea-breeze dry the light sweat she’d earned standing over the stove as the fish cooked. _Thank the Seven I still had plenty of sauce in the fridge ... _although Margaery and Arianne had only picked at their meals. _I suppose if your career depends on your figure, and you drink as much champagne as they do, you have to economise elsewhere …_

A shadow moved at the end of the garden. For a heartbeat, Brienne thought _The merfolk have come at last. _

_Flopping up the path to cut off my retreat …_

The image made her smile, and she was still smiling when the figure came closer and resolved into Jaime. “Jaime. For a minute there, I almost thought –”

He took another step. The light from the kitchen window fell full on his face, and Brienne felt her smile freeze and then crumble.

She was down the steps and across the grass to him so quickly it was a wonder she didn’t stumble. “What is it? That envelope … Jaime, was it to do with that thing you told me?”

Jaime shook his head. “No. Brienne … Brienne, I’m so sorry. We can’t be cloaked tomorrow. I have to ask you to return my ring.”

“Jaime?” Brienne could hear the quiver in her own voice. She felt as if she’d accidentally swallowed an ice-cube, and it was lodged in her throat, making it hard to speak or breathe or think. _Of course. I always knew it would end like this. I even told him, didn’t I? _

_You’re not in love with me. And one day you’ll meet someone beautiful and then you’ll want to be with them, and being married to me won’t be what you want._

“Jaime? Will you –” _at least tell me why_, but that was foolish, wasn’t it? Brienne _knew_ why, she knew why every time she looked in the mirror. “Jaime. I’m sorry.” She fumbled at her rings, dragging them over her knuckles. “Here. I … I understand. I – it’s better you told me now. Than later.” She put the rings in his hand.

Jaime stared down at them for a long moment, and then plucked the golden mermaid from his palm, offering it back to her. “No. This is yours.”

“I can’t keep it, if we’re not … I can’t keep it.” Brienne put her hands behind her back.

“No. Of course.” He thrust both rings into his pocket.

She blinked hard, and turned back toward the house. “I’ll get Oathkeeper.”

Jaime’s hand closed around her wrist, his weakened right, the grip not tight enough to force her to halt, despite how he’d improved. “Brienne,” he said, voice low. “It’s is yours. It will always be yours.”

“Jaime.” Her voice broke on his name – and he _flinched_.

_I always knew it would end like this, because that was how the story I told myself ends. Like Maester Genna said. Big, butch Brienne, too ugly to love. _

But that story hadn’t been any more true than her childhood fantasies of being magically granted a dainty figure and a pretty face.

_Stories have never been true, for me. I’m Brienne Tarth. _

_I live in the world of facts. _

_I can bench-press more than most men, I can beat pretty much anyone in a fight. Those are facts. _

_Jaime Lannister thinks I have beautiful eyes, and he said he loved me, and he was telling the truth. Those are facts, too. _

She stepped closer to him. “Jaime?” When he closed his eyes, she ventured to touch his cheek. “Jaime. Please. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what’s happened.”

Jaime turned his face into her hand, eyes still closed. “You have to promise me you won’t do anything.”

“I can’t promise any such thing,” Brienne said. “Not without knowing what I’m promising. But I promise I won’t do anything without talking about it with you first, will that do?”

“Father will …” He shook his head a little. “Brienne. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“He doesn’t know what _I’m_ capable of,” Brienne retorted. “Jaime. What did he _do_?”

After a long moment, he opened his eyes, and told her.

A chill crept over her as he spoke, one quite out-of-place on a balmy summer evening, one more suited to the snows of Winterfell or her half-remembered dreams of _blizzards_ and_ dark _and _something terrible. _ Tommen and Myrcella, and Joffrey too – whatever he’d done, he was still just a boy – having their lives torn apart for the profit of the likes of Petyr Baelish and the amusement of his readers. _Unless Jaime gives up _Oathkeeper.

_Unless we give up each other. _

“I underestimated him,” Jaime finished. “Or overestimated him, perhaps. I thought – I thought he was in my past, Brienne, I swear, I thought he was as done with me as I am with him –”

Brienne had to swallow hard before she spoke, but when she did, her voice was steady and calm. “Hush, it’s alright, it’s alright.” She wrapped her arms around him and held him close. “Of course you have to protect Tommen and Myrcella and Joffrey. Of course you do. Of course _we_ do.”

Jaime pressed his face to her shoulder. “Tyrion says he’ll … do _something_, but I can’t think what –”

“Well, _I_ wouldn’t bet against Tyrion,” Brienne said. “Would you?” He shook his head without raising it. “What else did Tyrion say?”

“To play along. To buy time.”

“Well, then, that’s what we’ll do.” It was a relief, that was how much the world had altered in a few short moments, a _relief_ to think that she and Jaime would have to part for a time. _But not forever. _She clung to that with all her strength. _Not forever. Perhaps for a short while, perhaps for longer._

_But not forever._

“Brienne. He’s going to take my film and turn it into some gods-awful turgid existential drama about repressed desire and madness that three people will see, and then sweep the Iron Thrones with it.”

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad –”

Jaime raised his head. “Have you _seen_ his films?”

“Um. I made it ten minutes into _Through a Glass Candle Darkly_, does that count?”

He gave a pained whimper that it took Brienne a heartbeat to realise was a laugh. “I thought he’d already ruined my life for the crime of disobeying him. But no, taking everything from me _once_ isn’t enough for Tywin Lannister. Fuck.” He leaned his forehead against hers, hands in her hair. “I’d give up _Oathkeeper _in a heartbeat if only we could be cloaked tomorrow and go to Pentos and then I could slink around Volantis in a trench-coat and watch you pretending you didn’t find it hilarious.”

Brienne felt her eyes fill with tears and blinked hard before they could fall. “Me too. Me too, Jaime.”

Jaime sighed, and said raggedly, “Try to keep your dad from hating me too much.”

“He’ll understand. Of course he’ll understand.”

He snorted. “I’m basically standing you up at the altar, Brienne. I’ve seen enough movies to know how loving fathers tend to react to that. And gods be good, the tabloids are going to have a tourney day. Keep Pia on, I’ll find a way to pay for her without my father knowing, you don’t want to be answering your own phone – or reading your own newspapers, for that matter – for at least a while.”

She smoothed his hair back from his face. “Dad will understand, because we’re going to tell him the truth, Jaime. And our friends, even if we have to pretend for everyone else.”

He drew back a little, frowning. “As if anyone would believe that the cousin-fucking _Kingslayer _was motivated by anything but –”

“Stop it,” Brienne said firmly. “Just stop it. You know I don’t like people saying mean things about my friends. Tywin Lannister might be able to blackmail you into letting him ruin your film, and he might be able to force us to spend some time apart, but he can’t take _everything_ from you. He can’t take away the fact that you’re a good, kind man, and that there are people who know it, and who care about you. I won’t allow him to, I _won’t_, do you hear me?” She held his gaze, and after a moment he nodded. “Good. Now come inside with me, and we’ll break the news to everyone.” 

“I don’t think I can face it,” Jaime whispered.

“Then _I’ll_ break the news, so long as you hold my hand while I’m doing it.”

It got a ghost of a smile from him. “I think I’m brave enough to do that.”

“Then come on.” She tugged him towards the back porch, and then stopped, and turned to take his face between her hands. “And Jaime, whatever happens, remember. We’ll _always_ have Pentos.”

His smile grew, even as his eyes brimmed, and he leaned up to press his lips to hers. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” 


	110. Brienne XLVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has friends. Tywin has enemies. And now they have a common cause ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so guys, these are very strange times in which we live. And here I am adding less-happy chapters to this marathon fic, and I kind of feel like I shouldn’t, as a public service, given we’re all dealing with a great deal of less-than-happy real-life right now and probably a generous helping of sugary fluff is what everyone needs. But the plot, it is the plot, and no matter how much I try to wrestle it to reach the happily-ever-after immediately, it resists like a shadowcat being forced into a bath. So … I’m sorry, dear readers. Jaime and Brienne will be together, and happy, but … this bump in the road is going to take as long as it takes.

Brienne knew she needed to pull herself together and get out of bed. Downstairs, the council of war that Catelyn Stark had called the moment Brienne had finished explaining what Tywin Lannister had done – and what it meant for all their plans – was still going, judging by the voices she could hear faintly through the floor. Soon, people would begin to arrive, needing to be directed to their assigned tents among the small canvas village set up beyond Evenfall Hall, expecting to see Brienne and Jaime welcoming them …

But Jaime was gone, flown away by Arthur Dayne in the middle of the night. And instead of being welcomed, their guests would need to be informed that Jaime Lannister had walked out on his marriage the night before the cloaking of the year. Each of them would need to be informed, the news imparted over and over and over again. _I have to do it_, Brienne told herself. _I just have to, that’s all_. 

She pulled the pillow back over her head.

“Sweetling?” Selwyn rapped on the door. “Sweetling, I’ve got some soup.”

“Not hungry,” Brienne said.

“I didn’t cook it, Catelyn Stark did. So it’s safe.”

“I’m not hungry!”

He paused. “Sweetling. You have to eat something. No matter how you feel.”

Brienne closed her eyes and curled up more tightly. _Not that it makes much difference_. Even with her knees drawn up to her chest, she was still a giant lump of a woman, huge and clumsy. It was only with Jaime that she felt that her enormous frame was something other than a curiosity, only with Jaime that she felt proud of her strength – not just when she strained through one more rep at the gym or knocked an opponent’s sword aside, but all the time. Watching television with her long legs stretched out to hand over the arm of the couch, or stretching to reach something from the top shelf of his kitchen cupboard, or single-handedly flipping the mattress to let it air, she’d catch Jaime watching her and feel tall and powerful and graceful. She touched the pearls still around her neck. _Exactly like you, understated and elegant_, Jaime had said.

But Jaime wasn’t there. Jaime was gone. 

“Sweetling?” Her father tapped on the door again.

“Dad …”

“Please. Two spoonfuls, and then I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

Jaime wouldn’t have wheedled and pleaded on the other side of the door. Jaime would have eaten the soup himself, with enthusiastic commentary on how delicious it was, and then pretended to spill it on the hall carpet so Brienne would fling open the door in her hurry to mop it up before it added one more stain.

_But Jaime is gone._

Jaime was gone, and as much as she understood and agreed _why_, his absence was a lump of misery in her chest. No matter how much she reminded herself that he hadn’t _wanted_ to go, he’d been forced to, no matter how often she replayed the sweet things he’d said about her eyes, her legs, her strength, she couldn’t silence the _other_ voices: _You’re not doing her any favours by dressing her up like a sow in silk … I thought someone should give you roses, since you’re so ugly you’ll never get them for real … Absurd. Grotesque. More a man than a woman, and not enough of either … Another hot date tonight, Butch?_

“Sweetling. Please.”

Brienne sighed, and uncurled. “Hold on.” She heaved herself out of bed. Still in yesterday’s clothes, with her hair no-doubt a bird’s nest, she knew she must look hideous, but her dad had seen her blotchy with redspots. _And what’s a bad case of bed-head compared to a freckled giant with redspots? _She crossed the room and unlocked the door. “Hello, Dad.” 

Selwyn was holding not just a bowl of soup, but a tray that also held a steaming bread roll, a glass of juice, and a sprig of bellflower. “Oh, sweetling,” he said.

“Don’t,” Brienne said hastily. “I mean – just, let’s not talk about it for a minute.”

“Alright.” He stepped forward and Brienne moved aside to let him set the tray on the dresser. “It’s pumpkin.”

“It smells good.” It _did_ smell good, and Brienne’s stomach gave a sudden growl. She picked up the tray and sat down on the bed. 

Her father sat down beside her. “The bread’s freshly baked, too. Sansa did that.”

“I’m sorry.” Brienne spooned up some of the soup. _Onion, garlic … is that ginger? I bet it freezes well, and soup is easy enough that I could teach Jaime to make it – _Suddenly, it was hard to swallow. She forced the mouthful down, and then another. “I should be downstairs, taking care of our guests.”

“No, sweetling, everyone understands,” Selwyn said quickly. “You don’t need to do anything, not anything at all – everything’s being taken care of.”

“How?” Brienne put her spoon down. “Dad, there’s a hundred people arriving! How can that be _taken care of_?”

“Those two young actress friends of Jaime’s –”

“Margaery and Arianne?”

Selwyn nodded. “They did a liveraven with young Robb Stark and his lady of them apparently finding out that the whole cloaking was an elaborate ruse to invite them to the most exclusive concert of the year – Mance Rayder and Barbrey Dustin playing in the newly restored Evenfall Hall.”

Brienne stared at him. “What?”

“And it went … vital?”

“Viral. It went viral,” Brienne corrected automatically. “Dad. _What_?”

“It was Marge’s grandmama’s idea.” He frowned a little. “I didn’t realise she was royal.”

“The Queen of Thorns? It’s a nickname. It was Olenna Tyrell’s idea? Ms Tyrell knows?”

Selwyn put his hand on her knee. “A few people know now, sweetling. Catelyn said that no war was won without allies. She and little Tyrion –”

“Don’t call him that, Dad. That’s like people calling me _Big Brienne_.”

Her father paused. “You’re right, I suppose. Well, Catelyn and Tyrion sat down and made a list of all the people they considered trustworthy, and all the people who liked you and Jaime enough to be considered trustworthy, and all the people who hate Tywin Lannister enough to have a self-interest in being trustworthy, and they’ve been sending ravens all night. And young Robb ravened his cousin, who asked his girlfriend, who ravened _her_ cousin, who spoke to Mance Rayder, who agreed to play along. And Tyrion ravened someone called …” Selwyn cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter what he’s called. Mr Umber. And he ravened Barbrey Dustin, and _she_ agreed to play along. So now the Lannistarth cloaking is a brilliant publicity stunt by Tyrion Lannister to launch his new historically-themed wedding venue on Tarth with a never-before-seen live concert by the two most famous folk bards of the age.”

Brienne gaped at him. “What? But what do people think about Jaime? About me and Jaime?”

“Ahh … I think they’re still working that detail out. But don’t worry, sweetling. That Catelyn Stark is quite formidable, and she seems to have quite a dislike of Tywin Lannister.” Selwyn smiled. “I suspect it was a mistake for him to threaten her son. I’m not sure there’s a great deal of forgiveness in that stone heart of hers.”

Brienne ate some more soup. “I suspect you’re right. And did you raven all the family, to let them know?”

“I did a liveraven too,” Selwyn said proudly. “Miss Sansa and I went up to Evenfall Hall and I showed it off and talked about how exciting it was to have a new venue here on Tarth. I got a hundred and forty-seven new followers!”

“That’s great, Dad,” Brienne said automatically. “So … what do they need me to do?”

“Sweetling, nothing. You can just stay up here, if you want. As far as everyone else is concerned, you and Jaime kindly lent your names to launching little Tyrion’s – to launching _Tyrion’s_ new investment. If you like, the both of you are just busy elsewhere, and when the Conclave downstairs works out what the public line should be, say something then.”

Brienne frowned. “The public line? I mean … no matter what we say, everyone will take one look at me and assume that Jaime finally came to his senses. We might as well just put out a one line statement and leave them to it.”

“Actually, there are quite a few other ideas being tossed around down there … but if you don’t feel like pretending nothing’s wrong tonight, you can skip the whole thing.”

It was just the perfect cherry floating in the sweet iced milk that the day Brienne least wanted to leave her bedroom – more than ever in her life, even more than the day of her prom – was the day that Mance Rayder and Barbrey Dustin were going to give their first, and probably last, ever performance together. She sighed. “I think I’d better. You know I can’t lie to any effect, Dad.”

Selwyn put his arm around her shoulders. “I know, sweetling. But don’t worry. Your friends have everything in hand.” 

Brienne thought that perhaps she should be a bit worried about Margaery and Arianne and Olenna Tyrell having her life _in hand_, but the thought of facing people – of trying to lie and doing it badly, or telling some version of the truth, and seeing in all their faces the same thought. _He’s come to his senses at last. It was always just a matter of time._ She forced down the last spoonful of soup. “Alright,” she said. “Will you thank Catelyn for the soup?”

“Of course, I will, sweetling. And Tyrion said he needed to talk to you, when you were feeling up to it.”

Brienne nodded. “Just him, though. I can’t face anyone else.”

Selwyn sighed. “They all love you, sweetling. They just want to come up and make sure you’re alright.” 

_And commiserate with me and be kind and sympathetic and I simply can’t stand that right now._ At least Tyrion would be reliably acerbic and not in the least bit solicitous. “Just Tyrion,” Brienne said again.

She straightened her slept-in clothes and gave her hair a quick brush while she waited. The last thing she wanted was for Tyrion to tell Jaime that she’d fallen apart. _The last thing he needs right now is to worry about me._ There wasn’t anything she could do about the shadows under her eyes, but she’d only shed a few tears so at least they weren’t bloodshot and swollen.

“Goodsister,” Tyrion said from the doorway, and Brienne had to blink hard.

She composed her face, and turned. “Goodbrother.”

“I’d ask how you’re doing, but I suspect you’d lie. Did your father tell you about this evening?”

Brienne sat back down on the bed, so as not to loom over him quite so much, and nodded. “Will people believe it?”

Tyrion shrugged. “They’ll say they do, which is the important thing. I plan to be enormously amused at the success of my subterfuge and Catelyn Stark will be icily _unamused_ at the idea she’d attend a Lannister family gathering. At some point, someone will Ravengram that they’ve just seen you and Jaime getting off a plane in Pentos –”

Brienne stared at him in alarm. “But your father!” 

“Will check the location-finding app he’s no doubt had Roose Bolton install on Jaime’s phone and see that he’s in Lannisport, where he’s supposed to be. Which brings me to another important point. I presume you were clever enough to realise that ravening or calling Jaime would be a bad idea at the moment?”

Brienne nodded. “If your father saw my name come up on the screen …”

Tyrion snorted. “Well, that, yes, but again, I’m sure father didn’t waste any time having one of his lackeys install the latest in spyware on every device Jaime uses.”

“So I can’t …” Brienne swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. “We can’t even talk to each other. At all.”

“I didn’t say that.” Tyrion gave her a sharp smile. “May I have your phone for a moment? Unlocked.”

Brienne handed it over. “Do you think he’d put something on mine?”

“He might try.” Tyrion tapped the screen. “But unlike Jaime, who has to play the defeated and now-once-again-dutiful son, _you_ have every reason to protect yourself. Or perhaps I should say, you have every reason for me to have Varys protect you. There.” He offered the phone back.

Brienne took it. There was a new icon on her home screen, a white finger held to black lips in a _hush_ gesture. “What is it?”

“It’s called _Whisperer_, and it’s the best. Even Varys uses it. It’s like regular raven, with a few key differences. You can only whisper someone who also has that specific app, and every message is _very _securely encrypted. Neither the message nor the identity of the sender shows, unless your fingerprint is recognised by the screen. And when you take your finger away, the message is deleted, utterly and forever. Not only that, but once you’ve set up your profile – and _don’t_ use your name, use something only Jaime will recognise – _Whisperer_ hides itself unless it recognises your fingerprint.”

Brienne stared at her phone. “It sounds like something out of _The Griff Identity_.”

“Oh, please, Jon Griff is an amateur compared to Faceless Men Inc. Or Varys, for that matter. Now. The minute Jaime can discretely do so, he’ll put _Whisperer_ on his phone, too.” He paused. “I know it’s not the same as seeing each other, or even as good as talking to each other, but it’s safe.”

“Would your father really put Tommen and Myrcella through a custody case just because Jaime and I talked on the phone?”

“Probably not,” Tyrion said. “But if father suspects that Jaime has done anything other than given in, he’ll be on his guard. And I don’t want him on his guard.”

Brienne touched the screen of her phone gently, tracing the icon of the app that would let her communicate with Jaime. _Safely_. “He’ll know anyway, Tyrion. Jaime isn’t the giving-in type.”

“You’re operating on the faulty assumption that our father knows anything about either of his children,” Tyrion said. “And that his ego is small enough for him to conceive the concept of _being wrong_. No, so long as nobody presents him with any evidence to the contrary, he’ll go on believing that his strategy was a masterstroke that saw him finally triumph over his rebellious offspring.”

Brienne shook her head. “He can’t be that stupid, surely. He threatened Tommen and Myrcella! How can he possibly imagine that Jaime would _ever_ forgive that?”

“Tywin Lannister thinks the Red Lion got what was coming to him and that the Red Wedding was a brilliant exercise of ruthless political acumen,” Tyrion said succinctly. “And although I have little and less interest in the arcane details of the third century, I take it from your expression you share my big brother’s opinion on the accuracy of _that_ interpretation.” He shrugged. “Not that the great auteur would even watch anything as lowbrow as _Belaquo the Barbarian _but I’m sure if he did, he’d whole-heartedly approve of the whole crushing-enemies, lamentation-of-women philosophy.” When Brienne stared at him blankly, Tyrion smiled. “Never mind. You’ll get the joke once Jaime sits you down and makes you watch it the next time he’s in a bad-films-from-childhood mood.”

Brienne looked down at her phone again, blinking hard. “Do you really think that will ever happen?” she asked, trying not to let her voice quiver. “Not Jaime’s mood, I mean. That we’ll be able to … be _us_, again?”

Tyrion put his hand over hers. “Goodsister, not only do I _think_ it will happen, I’m sure of it.” When she looked at him, he gave her a wolfish grin. “Because I intend to make certain that it does.”


	111. Whispers I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has a scheme.

Thapphireth: _Hello._

Leo: _Wench. How are you? I miss you._

Thapphireth: _I miss you too. Are you alright?_

Leo: _better 4hearing rrom you._

Thapphireth: _Jaime you need to ask Tyrion or Varys how to get autocorrect working in Whisperer._

Leo: _n e thing 4 you, wench. _

Thapphireth: _you know we’re missing the only concert the Mance and Barbrey Dustin have ever given together?_

Leo: _I got_ _Tyrion 2 recode it 4 me on his phone. _

Thapphireth: _He can’t do that! You can’t record live shows like that!_

Leo: _Relax, wnech. He’s not going 2 upload it to RookTube. It’s 4 us. We can listen at the same time._

Leo: _Wench? Ill get him 2 delete it if you feel tat strongly. _

Thapphireth: _No, don’t. Sorry. I just … it’s a nice idea. Thank you for thinking of it._

Leo: _I fckung haet you being upset and me not being there. _

Leo: _I fucking heta all of this. Fuck my father. He’s the lord of the 7 hells . no he’s the one who gives the lord of the 7 jells his worts ideas. _

Leo: _he invented the 7 hells. _

Thapphireth: _I don’t disagree. But Tyrion says it will be alright. _

Leo: _r you really optimistic or r you pretending to make me feel btter_

Thapphireth: _can it be both?_

Leo: _wats the 1st thing you want 2 do when this is over?_

Thapphireth: _Tyrion says I should make you show me Belaquo the Barbarian_

Leo: _7 hells no you’d haet it. _

Leo: _half-naked women fawning over heroic men. And being rescued. _

Leo: _also the swordfights are terrble_

Thapphireth: _I think I’d like watching it with you. You can tell me all the things that are wrong with it. _

Leo: _k but not the first thing. Whats the first thing? Do you want to go to lys_

Thapphireth: _Why Lys?_

Leo: _you had that dream. About a baot and fish like horses. _

Thapphireth: _one day maybe. But I just want to get takeout and sit on the couch and watch Bedding and the City. _

Leo: _hah I knew youd see the light. _

Thapphireth: _I’m still holding out hope that Arianne’s character will auction off her shoe collection and donate the money to charity. She must have ten thousands dragons in footwear in that closet. _

Leo: _sht gtg srry _

Leo: _Wench? R you there? Sorry about b4._

Leo: _Wench?_

Thapphireth: _I’m here. I was asleep. There’s no alert on this._

Leo: _wd defeat the prupsoe I suspect. Roose ws snooping around b4. _

Thapphireth: _It’s alright, Jaime. I wasn’t upset._

Leo: _Did you sleep wlle? _

Thapphireth: _Not really. I missed you._

Leo: _I missed you 2. _

Leo: _so I talked to tyrion and he has booked a hotel 4 you in KL_

Thapphireth: _I thought I’d stay here with Dad for a bit_

Leo: _you can go back after, but you need 2 go 2 KL_

Thapphireth: _Why?_

Thapphireth: _Jaime? Why? _

Leo: _k don’t freak out but you have a daet with Oberyn Martell 2morrow nite_

Thapphireth: _what?_

Leo: _obv not real date or I will be very sad. _

Thapphireth: _Jaime stop japing._

Leo: _I’m not. Oberyn looks like Arys Bumface only sexy. He’s just your type and if you fall in love with him I will kick myself for setting this up_

Thapphireth: _What in the seven hells are you talking about?_

Leo: _Obreyn is staying at the hotel 2. You 2 will have dinner in the hotel restraint. Then gte in the lift 2gether. Varys wull make sure photos leak _

Thapphireth: _I don’t even know Oberyn Martell! We met once and I don’t think either of us said two words to each other. He spent the whole time on his phone._

Leo: _don’t hold that against him 1 of his kids was being expelled from school that day_

Thapphireth: _What for?_

Leo: _something about a homemade morningstar. _

Thapphireth: _Why does he want to have dinner with me? Why is Varys taking pictures of me having dinner with Oberyn Martell? Why does it matter if I stay in the same hotel?_

Leo: _so it looks like you r cheating on me with him. So when I announce our trial separation people wont say the things you said they’d say if I fake broke our fake betrothal_

Thapphireth: _Jaime Lannister you are the most ridiculous human alive. Do you seriously think anyone is going to believe that someone like me would cheat on someone like you and that Oberyn Martell would be interested in being the party of the third part? _

Leo: _1st off I know you r 2 honest 2 cheat but most people don’t and 2nd I happen to know that Oberyn would be very interested bec he might be a greasy sleaz but clearly 1 with good taste._

Leo: _altho_ _he was more interested when he thought it was a 3some_

Thapphireth: _Jaime!_

Leo: _n e way its fine. There will also be a pic of you going your separate ways so when this is over we can btho b amused at the tabloids jumping 2 conlcusions over a bizness meeting_

Thapphireth: _Jaime we can just not say anything and then after a month people will get the hint_

Leo: _have to feed the beast wench. If you don’t control the styory, it controls you. _

Leo: _also will make father foam at the mouth but not suspicis. He haets the martells _

Leo: _am quite lokoing forward to telling huim that he told me 2 ditch you so I did and I guess you moved on. _

Thapphireth: _Jaime this is mad. _

Leo: _actually its brilliant_

Thapphireth: _Jaime …_

Leo: _You know when you start saying my name like that you r going to give in eventually. _

Thapphireth: _you can’t hear how I’m saying it._

Leo: _I’m right tho_

Leo: _aren’t I wench_

Leo: _wench?_

Thapphireth: _I have some conditions._

Leo: _Hah! Knew it._


	112. Brienne XXXVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne hates fake-dating romcoms. So why does she seem to be living in one?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, our internet seems to be losing its mind under the pressure of everyone stuck at home with nothing to do but ... use the internet for work and entertainment. My posting schedule is now ... whenever my connection is stable enough.

“Brienne, sweetie, calm down before you twist one of your own fingers off.” Arianne Martell sat down on the hotel bed beside her and put her own hands over Brienne’s. “It’s just dinner. I’ve been very clear with Oberyn that he’s to behave, not that he wouldn’t anyway, and Arys and I will be _right there_ at the next table.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Brienne mumbled. “No-one will ever believe that someone like Oberyn Martell would want to have dinner with _me_.”

“Jaime Lannister _married_ you, Brienne Tarth,” Arianne said firmly. “And don’t tell my uncle, but Jaime is _much_ better looking.” At a knock on the door, she jumped up. “Oh, thank the Seven, that must be Margaery.”

It _was_ Margaery, and Pia, both with their arms full of garment bags. “So sorry to be late,” Margaery said, depositing her burden on the bed. “But you do know what Alerie can be like when she gets _inspired_.”

“I certainly do,” Arianne said, as Pia and Brienne exchanged a glance confirming their mutual lack of comprehension.

“Now, Bri darling, Pia will take back anything you don’t want to keep, but honestly it’s all gorgeous.” Margaery unzipped the top bag and drew out a blouse that was rather alarmingly silver. “And the best thing is it’s all _free_, so long as you absolutely promise, cross your heart and swear to the Mother, that she will be your _exclusive_ stylist for the next season’s events.”

Brienne blinked, feeling very large, and slow, and thick as a castle wall. “Stylist?”

“Yes, darling. She and _only_ she will dress you for the red carpet. Which, just between you and me and everyone else in the world with any taste or sense of style, is not _exactly _a sacrifice on your part. Arianne?” Margaery held up the silver top.

“Too dressy for tonight,” Arianne ruled. “We need to thread the needle. Hot enough for people to misinterpret a business meeting, but not _so_ sexy that it definitely _isn’t_ a business meeting.”

“The navy dress,” Pia said, so quietly that Brienne barely heard her.

“The navy dress!” Margaery clapped her hands. “Pia, you are a genius.” She rootled through the stack of bags and produced one with a flourish. “This is perfect, and Bri darling, it also makes me hate you a little bit because there’s absolutely no way _I_ could wear it.” She unzipped the garment bag to reveal what Brienne was relieved to see was a perfectly sensible dress: sleeves below the elbow, hem below the knee – even below _Brienne’s_ knees – and, apart from a shimmer of detail around the neckline, a serviceable dark blue. Margaery thrust it at Brienne. “Go and get changed. Pia brought your shoes. Once your hair and makeup are done, you’ll stop traffic.”

“My hair? And makeup?

“Yes, he’s coming in five minutes, so shoo!” Margaery flapped her hands.

Feeling a little as if she’d been hit over the head with a small, elegant, and extremely sophisticated mallet, Brienne went into the bathroom and took off the blouse and jeans she’d thought would do for this farce of a dinner. Once it was on, the dress was … perhaps a little less sensible than it had appeared on the hangar, with a wide V of a neckline that exposed rather more of her freckled chest than she was entirely comfortable with. When she looked in the mirror, though, her shoulders seemed less bulky and she almost had a waist.

And the dark tones of the dress picked up a glint of brighter blue when she moved, like the ocean changing colour as the waves rose and fell. The deep, rich colour of it made her eyes seem darker.

_Thapphireth, _Brienne thought, smoothed the silk over her hips, put on her shoes, and opened the door, only to discover that another familiar face had joined the conspiracy of Jaime’s friends determined to make Brienne’s fake ‘date’ a success.

“A woman secured a fitting with Alerie Hightower,” Jaqen H'ghar observed with a faint smile.

“Does it look alright?” Brienne smoothed the skirt again. If Jaime had been there, she would have known that she didn’t look ridiculous, because he had promised to tell her if she ever did, and he’d never broken his word. _But Jaime isn’t here. This whole absurd situation is because Jaime isn’t here. _

“You look _magnificent_, darling,” Margaery said. “I’m fighting the urge to throw myself down on the carpet and beg you to trample me.”

That was so ludicrous it surprised a laugh from Brienne. “Should I be wearing Jaime’s pearls?”

“No,” Arianne said. “Nothing to interfere with the neckline. Now, sit down, and let Jaq do your hair and makeup, and then we can go downstairs and watch jaws drop right across the restaurant.”

Brienne let herself be urged into a chair. “Not too much makeup,” she said to Jaqen.

“A man remembers,” he assured her. “A woman wishes to look like herself.” He touched her hair gently. “The same as last time?”

Brienne nodded. “I liked that, yes.” Jaqen put his hand on the top of her head and she was obediently still. “How’s your daughter?”

He gave her a small smile in the mirror. “A girl has discovered that carrots are not only healthy, but palatable.” 

“Do you bake them with honey?” Brienne asked. “Not much, just a little, it makes a lot of difference.”

“A man does not, but he will try it. Does it work for leeks?”

“No, for leeks, the secret is butter. Lots of butter. Which sounds unhealthy, but if it’s a vegetable side, it’s probably only as much as on a sandwich.”

“A man will search 3ER,” Jaqen said gravely.

“I can raven you a recipe.” Brienne watched Jaqen’s hands in the mirror as he pinched strands with the curling iron.

“A man would be grateful. There.” He stepped back. “A woman will need a trim in the next few weeks. A man would be glad to assist.”

Brienne turned in the chair to look up at him, although even seated, she didn’t have to look _very_ far up. “Are you still at Rosby?”

Jaqen shook his head. “A man is between jobs. For the moment, a man lives in Tumbleton. If no work emerges, a man and his daughter will return to Braavos.”

“Well, _that’s _a complete waste,” Margaery said, studying Brienne. “I mean, I’m sure there are people in Braavos who desperately need decent hair and are absolutely longing for your return, but that’s their problem, really.”

Jaqen took a small case from his pocket and snapped it open. “And the rent is a man’s problem, lovely lady.” 

Margaery blithely waved that away as Jaqen began to draw eyeliner along Brienne’s eyelashes. “You can do my hair for the Poor Fellows charity dinner at the end of the week, I’ll tell everyone it was you, you’ll have more clients than you’ll know what to do with by the end of the month. She needs more mascara.”

“A man must disagree, lovely lady,” Jaqen said. “A woman’s colouring would make it look artificial.”

“Mmm, perhaps you’re right.” Margaery tilted her head, studying Brienne. “You really do have a knack. Where did you study?”

“The Academy of the Many Faced God.” Jaqen made a face at Brienne, and she obediently tightened her lips for him to paint them with gloss. “In Braavos, you would not have heard of it –”

“Of course I’ve _heard_ of it,” Margery said. “The key makeup artist on _The Fairmarket Story_ was a graduate of AMFG! Grandmama never stops talking about how good he was!”

Jaqen finished with the lip gloss and gave Margaery a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Wait.” Brienne stared at him. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Margaery gaping as well. “Do you mean that was _you_? But that film is … old.”

“A man has aged well,” Jaqen said calmly, closing up his makeup case again. “A woman and her friends should reflect that advice to moisturise is worth taking.”

“Believe me, I’m going to _bathe_ in lanolin from now on,” Arianne murmured. “Brienne, you look fabulous. I don’t suppose you’d consider doing a cameo on _Bedding and the City_?”

Brienne stared at her. “What?”

“Oh, as the personal trainer who tried and fails to get the girls to self-actualise through fitness?” Margaery said. “That would be brilliant, and it would _completely_ fit in with the theme of the last few seasons.”

Brienne blinked. “Theme? _Bedding and the City_ has a theme?”

“Of course, sweetie, at least recently, since Uncle Doran helped me get a producer’s credit and script veto. It’s about how women’s search for self-validation through sexual and romantic relationships blinds them to what would truly fulfill them.”

_Maiden’s grace, wait until I tell Jaime. _It hurt, a little, to remember that she wouldn’t be able to see his face or hear his voice when she did, only read his safely-anonymised Whisper. _But at least we have that. _Tyrion had devised it, Tyrion was on their side, and Tyrion would find a solution. She had to cling to that.

“Ready?” Arianne asked, breaking into Brienne’s distraction. 

Brienne nodded. “Your uncle … I mean, I met him that time in Dorne. But … what should I talk about? Does he have hobbies?”

Arianne rolled her eyes. “Not interesting ones. But if your boredom tolerance is _very_ high, ask him about golf, he’ll probably not even notice your eyes are glazing over until you fall face first into your food. Or talk about movies. He has an opinion on just about every movie you’ve ever seen and most of the ones you haven’t.”

“Golf. Movies. Got it.”

“Don’t worry.” Arianne squeezed Brienne’s arm. “Oberyn is extremely well-mannered and widely agreed to be the most charming of all of us. You won’t need to come up with a topic of conversation – he’ll do all the work.”

“Mmm, he’s lovely like that,” Margaery said dreamily.

Arianne turned to stare at her. “Margaery Tyrell, you did _not_.”

Margaery shrugged. “He offered, how could I be rude?”

“Because he had that famous affair with your _grandmother_,” Arianne said.

“Which meant I could be sure he was thoroughly housebroken,” Margaery said with a smug smile.

Brienne fixed her eyes on the door, feeling her cheeks go so hot she was sure she’d turned the colour of someone who’d just swallow a gallon of snake sauce. “Shall we go?”

Arianne abandoned Brienne at the door of the hotel restaurant, leaving her to navigate the elegant environment alone. _At least I’m not wearing heels_, she thought, as she tried not to knock into any of the tables or the other diners. _If I were wearing heels, I’d be sure to fall over. _

_And Jaime isn’t here to catch me, like he promised._

When Oberyn Martell rose from his seat to greet her, Brienne saw his lean, saturnine face fractured and splintered by tears.

“Ms Tarth.” A hand on her shoulder steered her to a chair, which he promptly drew out for her. Leaning over her, Oberyn murmured, “Don’t try to talk. Breathe. Drink some water.”

Brienne breathed. She did not try to talk. She drank some water. After a little while, she managed to raise her eyes and meet Oberyn’s gaze, his eyes as dark as the sea on a moonless night. “I’m sorry.”

He leaned forward, voice so low it was barely audible, was certainly too quiet to be overheard. “Never let it be said that I’m a less generous co-star than Jaime Lannister.”

Brienne blinked. “Co-star?”

Oberyn smiled. “Well, we’re clearly both the leads in a fake dating romcom, aren’t we?”

“I hate those films,” Brienne said involuntarily.

Oberyn raised his eyebrows until they almost met his widow’s peak. “Even _Pretty Wench_? Or _To All The Squires I’ve Loved Before_?”

“I liked _Pretty Wench_ until I had a few months in the Cloaks,” Brienne allowed.

Oberyn smiled at her, and it was a warm smile, that didn’t make her feel like she was being mocked. “Ah, yes, the collision of reality with fiction, always an awkward moment.”

“I don’t know why you agreed to do this,” Brienne mumbled. “I mean, I know why Jaime thought it was a good idea –”

“Ms Tarth.” Oberyn reached across the table and took her hand. “Aside from my niece promising to castrate me if I didn’t do everything I could to help you and Jaime Lannister – a threat I take entirely seriously – Tywin Lannister refused to release me from my contract when Harlaw offered me the lead in _The Astaporian_, and by the time my lawyer got me free, they’d cast someone else.”

“I haven’t seen it,” Brienne said. “Was it a good part?”

“Coming to a Weirflix screen near you at the end of the year, starring somebody not half as handsome as I am,” Oberyn said. “And honestly? For that salary, and the exposure, I could care less about the writing.”

Brienne smiled. “Jaime used to claim exactly that, until he reached the end of his patience and started ranting about trebuchets being in the wrong place.”

“Ah, but Lannister is a serious actor – not that his career reflects it – and I, Miss Tarth, am interested in money, and fame that I can parlay into money, and the prospect of an early-as-possible-retirement back to civilisation.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “The sooner I leave your barbaric climate behind, the better.”

“I feel that shooting _Oathkeeper_ in Winterfell in winter might have given you a somewhat jaundiced view,” Brienne said.

Oberyn smiled, just the right side of a smirk. “Olenna always has been able to wind me around her fingers. Ah, but what a role!” He leaned forward, smile vanishing, lowering his voice. “My sister. You raped her! You murdered her! You killed her children! Say her name!”

Brienne tried to keep her expression sober and innocent. “I thought you didn’t care about the writing?”

Oberyn threw back his head with a shout of laughter that drew glances. “Ah, Ms Tarth. Ellaria told me you were stunning, but she didn’t mention your wit.”

“Ellaria?” Brienne blinked. “I don’t think I know … wait, is she a bartender?”

“A bartender, a businesswoman, the mother of my youngest children, and the beloved of my life.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “She was quite proud of the selflessness with which she prompted you and Lannister together, instead of taking the opportunity to seduce you herself.”

“Me?” Brienne stared at him. “Not Jaime?”

Oberyn shrugged a little, a complicated Dornish shrug that involved far more of his body than just his shoulders. “Pretty faces are ten a stag. Ellaria is a woman of taste.”

“Um.” Brienne fixed her gaze on the tabletop, feeling her cheeks flame. “I’m not … that is, I recall her being a very attractive woman, in the abstract sense. But I don’t, I’m not …”

Oberyn grinned at her. “Never say never, as double-oh-three would say. But relax, Ms Tarth. Ellaria has too tender and romantic a heart, and I have been too thoroughly intimidated by my niece, for either of us to interfere in your _grand amour._” He turned and gestured to the waiter – just one brief wave, without even waiting to check that he’d been seen. Of course, at the merest gesture from _Oberyn Martell_, the waiter shot across the room as if fired by a trebuchet. “Now. I recommend a champagne _aperitif – _although the martinis here are also as good as you’ll find outside of Dorne – and a red to go with the main. Let’s take advantage of the only thing the Crownlands do well and order steak?”


	113. Whispers II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being together, while being apart.

Thapphireth: _I can’t believe you persuaded me to fake-date Oberyn Martell_

Leo: _You didn’t let him charm you did you?_

Thapphireth: _First of all, I see you worked out autocorrect, congratulations._

Leo: _No Peck did._

Thapphireth: _Of course. And secondly, Oberyn was very nice, and polite, and well behaved. But he didn’t charm me. _

Leo: _Good. Id be very sad if this turned into an actual fake-dating romcom instead of a fake fake-dating romcom. _

Thapphireth: _Do you ever lose track?_

Leo: _of what?_

Thapphireth: _Your ridiculousness?_

Leo: _no ofc not. I’m Tyrion’s bro after all. I just use my brain 4 more useful things than him. _

Thapphireth: _Yes, I can see that. _

Thapphireth: _Also, and you might want to move outside to read this in case the rapid expansion of your ego causes damage to the furniture, but his take on Lion wasn’t a patch on yours._

Leo: _That’s_ _my loyal wench. _

Thapphireth: _Do you remember that bartender in Dorne, Ellaria?_

Leo: _Yes. And I bet she remembers me, given the tip I left for her._

Thapphireth: _She and Oberyn are together. I thought he was seeing Margaery. _

Leo: _not mutually exclusive, either in Dorne or the reach._

Thapphireth: _Jaime, can I ask you something serious? _

Leo: _Wench, n e thing._

Thapphireth: _It would be mutually exclusive for me. Would it be for you?_

Leo: _ofc. _

Leo: _wench I’d tell you I’d be faithful bt it sounds like a sarcfice. I can’t imagine wanting n e woman who isn’t you._

Leo: _I had to pretend Arienne was you to get thro that scene in the movie _

Thapphireth: _Arianne is beautiful _

Leo: _Oberyn is handsome_

Thapphireth: _Okay. _

Thapphireth: _I wasn’t attracted to him. I liked him, but I wasn’t attracted to him. Just so you know. _

Leo: _What about Arsehat Oakbrain? You still have that crush on him?_

Thapphireth: _I don’t think I ever did. I just liked the story. _

Leo: _wench you r such a romantic. I shd hv known when I saw those ballads on yr cds. _

Thapphireth: _says the man who thinks Bedding and the City is a mediation on the importance of love in modern society_

Leo: _It is!_

Thapphireth: _Arianne_ _says it’s about how women can’t see what’s good for them because they think they need to have a boyfriend._

Leo: _ don’t believe you._

Thapphireth: _you do though._

Leo: _so women are smhow made weka bec they want love?_

Leo: _that sounds sexist to me. _

Thapphireth: _More that no-one should put their life on hold in the expectation that finding a husband will make them happy. _

Leo: _ I wd possinly agree with you if you weren’t slandering Bedding and the City. _

Thapphireth: _ That’s a surprisingly lawyerly word for someone who uses his brain for more useful things than legal precedents_

Leo: _Alrra Blackmont’s characyer says it all the time_

Thapphireth: _I should have known. _

Leo: _ys you shd. We shd watch it. or Sunspare Vice._

Thapphireth: _When this is over._

Leo: _No, now. Pick an episode. Ether show. Or a movie. _

Thapphireth: _Belaquo the Barbarian_

Leo: _done. fire up your weirflix_

Thapphireth: _All set._

Leo: _3 … 2 … 1… play_

Thapphireth: _oh mother’s mercy. Is that actually a real human?_

Leo: _Jime Lannister is unavable to answer your raven as he just sprained himself laughing_

Leo: _I dod wanr you. _

Thapphireth: _his teats are bigger than mine_

Leo: _and his hair is longer 2. Do you recognise him?_

Thapphireth: _should I?_

Leo: _Its Belwas! You no, Strong Belwas?_

Thapphireth: _No._

Leo: _Yes_

Thapphireth: _No!_

Leo: _Yes! He was in movies b4 the whole music thing. _

Leo: _and thank the 7 he discovered hs cd sing in tune. Because he certainly can’t act._

Thapphireth: _I don’t know if I’m qualified to judge but … yes._

Thapphireth: _He also can’t fight. What was that supposed to be, Ox and Plough? _

Leo: _I think it’s supposed to be posing wth a sword and then more psing with a sowrd. _

Thapphireth: _In that case, he’s doing well. Wait, who is that?_

Leo: _The woman? _

Thapphireth: _The half-naked woman, yes. _

Leo: _estranged daughter of evil wizard._

Thapphireth: _she’s very enthusiastic about Belaquo for the daughter of his enemy_

Leo: _You might eant to avert yr eyes wench, 1 of the wrots sex scenes in cimena is up nexy_

Thapphireth: _Now I’m morbidly fascinated._

Thapphireth: _Alright I’m no longer morbidly fascinated I’m just horrified. That’s a health and safety violation waiting to happen. _

Leo: _Told you. _

Thapphireth: _You liked this film?_

Leo: _I saw it at a formative age._

Thapphireth: _Not sure that’s an excuse._

Leo: _in my dfence I knew it was bad event hen. But Alyse Ladybright was super hot when I was 14. _

Leo: _now you know who was in my wank-bank. Who was in yrs?_

Leo: _Wench?_

Thapphireth: _I’m sorry, Brienne is unavailable to respond to your whisper as she has lost her mind temporarily_

Leo: _Assface Dickhead? _

Thapphireth: _No._

Leo: _I feel that you knowing who I meant indicates you are coming 2 yr senses._

Leo: _also if not him ythen who? _

Thapphireth: _you’ll laugh at me_

Leo: _no. might laight with you. not at. Evr. _

Thapphireth: _Renly. _

Leo: _that fcking shit cnt asshole_

Thapphireth: _Jaime, it was just a crush, like you had on that woman currently gyrating on screen. Why does magic involve semi-naked dancing, do you think?_

Leo: _no I don’t care. What he said. _

Leo: _no wonder you were upset_

Thapphireth: _That wasn’t his fault. _

Leo: _Fuck that_ _wench if I said sumthing like that about pia or gilly you’ld punch me. _

Thapphireth: _it wasn’t untrue._

Leo: _crne’s cunt I will hve to hit him next time I see huim. _

Leo: _it was absolutely untrue. _

Thapphireth: _I think I’ve lost track of the plot. What’s this temple?_

Leo: _evil wizards temple_

Thapphireth: _The woman is going to die, isn’t she? _

Leo: _conmgratulation on being genre savy. _

Thapphireth: _Is she going to die saving him or giving birth to his child? _

Leo: _Wait 5 minutes_

Thapphireth: _Both? Seriously?_

Leo: _I told you you’d hate it. _

Thapphireth: _Wow._ _How did this get made?_

Leo: _It was a different time _

Thapphireth: _the third century?_

Leo: _honesty from everything I’ve read the 3rd century was better_

Leo: _like we might not know who the ween in the north was but there was 1_

Thapphireth: _Just one._

Leo: _k fair. _

Leo: _but there was the blue knoght 2_

Thapphireth: _No-one would care if it wasn’t a big deal though _

Leo: _k fair. But you know, is it worse _

Thapphireth: _I don’t know. Worse to be a woman in the third century than forty years ago? Probably._

Leo: _Wehcn you would have been fine any age_

Thapphireth: _But it’s not about the exception. _

Leo: _Hah! You admitted you r exceptional! _

Leo: _I;mdoing a victory lap around the room with my shirt pulled over my head_

Thapphireth: _You aren’t, you’re typing on your phone_

Leo: _mean wench._

Leo: _getting hung up on mere details. _

Thapphireth: _Well, that film was as about as bad as Tyrion said it would be. _

Leo: _Tyrion lvoes Belaquo the Babrasian. _

Thapphireth: _You know what film I’d like to see? Leyton the Librarian _

Leo: _thrilling adventures in the card cataloague? _

Thapphireth: _it’s all computerised now_

Leo: _even harder to make visually interesting. _

Thapphireth: _maybe there could be a murder in the stacks._

Leo: _conflict between the head of acquisitions and the chief fiancne officer._

Thapphireth: _are those real things? _

Leo: _sure check the Citedel’s org chart online_

Thapphireth: _How do you know so much about libraries?_

Leo: _I’m hurt wench. just bec I’m an actor deosn’t meant I cant read_

Thapphireth: _Jaime. You know that’s not what I meant. _

Leo: _I may go into a decline _

Thapphireth: _Jaime!_

Leo: _There was sum huge scadal when Tyrion was a student. The entire student body was entranced. He told me in exhaustive detail. I forgot as much of it as I could as fast as I could but some stuff stuck._

Thapphireth: _Scandal? About what?_

Leo: _someone ehiring his kid I think. Wd you really watch a movie about a librarian? _

Thapphireth: _Depends on a lot of other things really. But it would have to be more interesting than Belaquo the Barbarian._

Leo: _harsh, wench, harsh. You’d rather watch 2 hours of someone shelving books than Strong Belwas in his best role?_

Thapphireth: _I’d rather watch 2 hours of paint drying._

Leo: _I’d watch paint drying with you, wench. _

Thapphireth: _You probably will have to if you go ahead with that house. _

Leo: _Oh, I’m going ahead. Tyrion set me up a shell company. _

Thapphireth: _Isn’t that illegal?_

Leo: _No it’s just dodgy. Bu I’m not using it for anything bad, so it’s fine. Just to buy the house and the land at Dremfyre point. _

Thapphireth: _But why a shell company? I mean, I get it for Tarth, but the place in King’s Landing? _

Leo: _Well, wench, I’ve been meaning to tell you, but you’re now a dircteor of BlueLion Property Management Inc. _

Thapphireth: _What?_

Leo: _With full draw on all asseyts. So we sort of co-own a house. And some land. _

Thapphireth: _Jaime._

Leo: _Is that the bad Jaime or the good Jamie? I can’t tell. _

Thapphireth: _the good Jaime. _

Leo: _fuck wench I wish I was ther. Or you wr here. _

Thapphireth: _I know. I miss you. _

Leo: _good. _

Leo: _sorry that sounds bad I guess. I don’t like it that you’re unhappy but I’m selfish_

Leo: _I miss you 2 if that needs saying_

Thapphireth: _I guess I’m selfish too. Don’t forget me, Jaime. _

Leo: _fuck never. Don’t you ether _

Thapphireth: _don’t worry. I’ll be 90 and still remember the moment we met._

Leo: _no forget that. Pls. I thought you were Brian. Blame davos accent_

Thapphireth: _I thought you were the most beautiful man I’d ever seen_

Leo: _k you can remember that_

Thapphireth: _I thought you’d say that. _

Leo: _are you stil planning to fight at rosby?_

Thapphireth: _absolutely. _

Leo: _good. Go downstairs and look outside your front door._

Thapphireth: _Jaime?_

Leo: _it’s not merfolk I prmise. _

Thapphireth: _Jaime. _

Leo: _did you look?_

Thapphireth: _Jaime this must have cost a fortune._

Leo: _does it fit? Try it on. tell me._

Thapphireth: _it fits. _

Thapphireth: _Jaime it’s beautiful. How did you get it here?_

Leo: _peck. _

Thapphireth: _of course. But the lions – won’t your father realise_

Leo: _wench, as if he cares enough to pay attention. Besides they’re small. Or so gendry told me. _

Thapphireth: _they are. Little lions and little suns_

Leo: _stars. Little stars. _

Leo: _lets change out names when this is over_

Thapphireth: _To what? _

Leo: _lAnnistarth._

Leo: _sry Lannistarth _

Thapphireth: _not Lannisterth? _

Leo: _no that sounds like a condition youd need 2 seek maesters advice 4. _

Leo: _This is the worst case of Lannisterth I’ve ever seen! _

Leo: _Besides Lannistarth is already a hashtag. _

Thapphireth: _well that’s how I always decide on my surname. _

Leo: _or I could just vbe Jaime Tarth. _

Thapphireth: _But Tyrion. And your Aunt Genna. And Addam. _

Leo: _that’s why Lannistarth is better. Best of both wrlds. _

Thapphireth: _can we really?_

Leo: _really change our names? It’s 10 mins at the sept_

Thapphireth: _have the best of both worlds._

Leo: _yes._

Leo: _we’ll have the best of both worlds and we’ll always have pentos, 2._

Thapphireth: _here’s looking at you, kid. _


	114. Brienne XLIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rosby Tourney begins ...

“I don’t know exactly how to do this, Ms Brienne,” Pia said.

“It’s alright, Pia,” Brienne reassured her. “I’m quite used to doing it –”

_Myself_, she was about to finish, but Peck interrupted her. “It’s pretty simple,” he said to Pia, stepping forward to fasten the last buckle on Brienne’s bracer. “Like flat-pack furniture – every slot goes into a tab.”

“I’m not used to having these,” Brienne said. “No-one makes light armour this fancy.”

Peck slipped the lace through the buckle and fastened it, smiling. “I suspect Mr Jaime had strong words with Gendry about how much protection he wanted you to have. There. You’re set.”

Brienne turned to look at herself in the mirror, and for an instant found herself wondering who had come into her dressing tent. The woman who faced her was toweringly tall, intimidatingly broad through the shoulders, feet planted solidly on the packed earth. From behind her helm’s nose-guard, her eyes glinted fierce blue, the colour a sharper shade of the tones of the armour that clad her head to foot. Gendry had dyed the leather for her brigandine, leg guards and boots a dark indigo, while her helm and the studs from the plates had the darker, almost black tone that meant they’d been rust-proofed. Each stud was either a lion head, or a Tarth sunburst.

Jaime had been right – the lions and the stars were too small to be seen, even close up, by anyone not looking for them – but at a distance they made a rippling pattern over her brigandine and ringed the bracers on her wrists.

“You look very fine, Ms Brienne,” Pia said. “You look … like I’d like to look, one day.”

Brienne turned to stare at her. “You?”

Pia coloured pink, and looked down. “I know it’s stupid, I’m just a skinny little girl, and –”

“No, no, no.” Brienne took two quick steps and seized Pia’s hands. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just … you’re pretty. _Really_ pretty. I’ve always … I’ve always wanted to look like _you_.”

Pia blinked at her. “Looking like me’s no fun, Ms Brienne. Men … well, they wouldn’t try stuff on you that they try on me.”

Brienne nodded, and tried not to mind. “I know, no-one would want to –”

“Because you’d _kill_ them,” Pia interrupted. “Like you did for that girl. And you look like you would. And I wish _I did.” _

“Oh,” Brienne said. She squeezed Pia’s hands. “Well, I can’t do anything about how you look, or I look. But I’m happy to teach you stuff in the gym. I mean, I can’t teach you to kill anyone, because that would be against the law. But I can teach you a lot about self-defence.”

“Ms Brienne,” Peck said. “Ms Brienne? I hear the trumpets. You need to get ready.”

“It’s fine,” Brienne said. “I never go in the parade. I just go to the grounds when I’m scheduled for a match, and I’m not up for an hour yet.”

“I think this time, Ms Brienne, you are in the parade, actually,” Peck said apologetically. “Podrick’s here with your horse.”

Brienne stared at him. “My _horse_?”

“Well, Mr Jaime’s horse.”

“I don’t know how to ride a horse!”

“Mr Jaime said she was very easy, and you’d catch on in no time.”

Brienne stared at him for a long moment. “You are … I’m sorry, Peck, but you are actually telling me that Jaime has arranged for me to ride into the arena on his horse?”

Peck nodded. “Yes. And Podrick and I have your banners. The Evenstar and Ser Duncan, that’s what Mr Tyrion said.”

“_What? _No. It’s one thing for Tyrion to put up a banner, but there are people here who _know_ who Ser Duncan was. _Everybody_ here knows who Ser Duncan was._”_

“Mr Jaime said you’d say that.” Peck took his phone out of his pocket, touched the screen, and held it out to Brienne. “And he said to show you this.”

Brienne took the phone gingerly, her gloves making her grip a little awkward. On the screen was the weirnet site of _Freefolk Fortnightly_, and the headline read _Amazing Archaeological Discovery On Tarth_.

Brienne found herself smiling. _Jaime Lannister, you ridiculous man. _The story – by-line _Sansa Stark,_ of course – was about the discovery of a shield in the old Evenfall armoury with Ser Duncan’s coat of arms. The students who’d uncovered it were interviewed, their enthusiasm and excitement pouring through every quote; experts from the Citadel were cited, their no-doubt qualified endorsement edited out – the impression, overall, was that it was a definitive historical discovery that Tarth were the heirs to Ser Duncan himself. “Peck, it’s not enough to just tell a plausible story. It needs to be right, as well.”

“Please, Ms Brienne,” Peck said. “I really want to keep my job.”

And that was how Brienne found herself in the Rosby Tourney Parade, for the first time in her life, and on a horse, also for the first time in her life. _At least I’ve been to a tourney before, which I suspect puts me ahead of Podrick_. Peck wore the archaic tunic of a page with a certain flair, clearly from all the times he’d done similar service for Jaime, but Pod looked skinny and small and extremely young, as if the banner was going to be too big for him to manage.

Brienne wasn’t sure which she was more nervous about, the horse or the parade, until Sugar rapidly proved herself to be all Jaime had promised and more when it came to a sweet nature and a gentle gait. She’d stood like a rock while Brienne climbed aboard her with the aid of a stepladder, and, seemingly realising she had a complete novice on her back, walked steadily and smoothly behind Podrick and the Evenstar banner he carried. Brienne became increasingly confident that she wasn’t going to fall off in front of everyone – which gave her more and more time to dread looking ridiculous in front of everyone, instead.

If she’d had the faintest idea how, she would have turned Sugar around and galloped back to her tent. Instead, she had no choice but to sit up straight and stare ahead between Sugar’s ears, and hope that no-one would actually laugh aloud, or even jeer, and if she didn’t look at anyone she wouldn’t have to know about the expressions on their faces.

Whoever was in front of her was clearly one of the tourney favourites, from the rising hubbub of excited voices and cheers just ahead. Brienne could see the back of Podrick’s neck turning pink with embarrassment. _I will have _words_ with Jaime about this. On poor Pod’s behalf, as well as my own._

“There she is!” screamed a familiar voice. _Arya. _“Brienne! Brienne!”

There was nothing for it but for Brienne to steel herself and turn her gaze from Podrick’s back. Arya was leaning over the rail, waving frantically and grinning hugely. Gendry Waters was beside her, as was Sansa, and Catelyn, and all three of her brothers. They were all waving as well, although not with Arya’s complete disregard for either her own dignity or the safety of the people around her.

Brienne loosened one hand from her death-grip on the pommel horn and waved back.

“See!” Arya crowed to the people around the little huddle of Starks. “I _told_ you we knew her! Gendry made her armour! Brienne, Meera’s here too! Over there – ” She waved vaguely at fully half the crowd. “Somewhere.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for her,” Brienne called back, before she had time to think. _Gods be good, now I’ll _have_ to look at the crowd._ But from what Meera Reed had said, this would be the first time she’d ever been able to come to a tourney, and the young woman had been kind to Brienne and taken good care of Oathkeeper …

“She’s fighting today! Novice unarmoured, two o’clock!”

Sugar was carrying Brienne past the Starks now, and Brienne had no idea how to stop or even slow her, even if it had been a good idea to risk holding up the rest of the parade. “I’ll watch if I can,” she had time to promise Arya, and then they were behind her.

Still in earshot, though, and Brienne felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment as Arya began to chant _Blue Knight, Blue Knight, Blue Knight!_

_Gods be good, and I was in a panic about getting cloaked in front of three hundred people. _There were at least three _thousand_ at the tourney from what she’d seen of the crowd on the way in, well up from last year. _And I might not be wearing a dress but I _am_ on a horse and prancing about with Ser Duncan’s own coat of arms. _

If it was possible to literally die of embarrassment, Brienne was quite certain she would have had only moments to live. _But there’s nothing for it._ _I just have to do it, and get through it, and then later perhaps if I pretend it was all a jape it will be forgotten as anything other than an example of my terrible sense of humour. _

She could still hear Arya, _Blue Knight! Blue Knight!_ and clearly she’d intimidated Gendry, or perhaps Robb, into joining her, because there was a man’s voice too, _Blue Knight, Blue Knight, Blue Knight!_ and the Mother had no mercy for Brienne because they both had loud, carrying voices and the sound wasn’t getting any quieter as Sugar paced carefully ahead. _It almost seems to be getting louder_, which was ridiculous as anything other than a sign of how her embarrassment was playing tricks on her mind. 

“There she is!” someone shouted, and when Brienne looked to see who it was, it was a complete stranger. “Blue Knight! Blue Knight!”

The people cheering for whoever was in front of her were getting louder, competing with the cries of _Blue Knight, Blue Knight!_ coming from all sides now, from people Brienne recognised a little from previous tourneys and from complete strangers. From Meera Reed, jumping up and down and waving her arms above her head and from Arthur Dayne himself and from Davos Seaworth in a bellow that would have done credit to the sea-captain who had given the family their name.

_Gods be good, those people aren’t cheering for someone in front of me. _

_They’re cheering for _me.

If the saddle hadn’t had such a high cantle, Brienne might well have fallen off Sugar despite the mare’s sedate gait. She had the odd feeling that the entire world was rearranging itself around her, as if she was living inside a kaleidoscope. _They’re cheering for _me.

_They’re _cheering_ for me._

“Tarth the Tall!” someone shouted, seeing the banner Peck carried, and that was taken up by others as well, until _Blue Knight, Blue Knight! _won out again.

_What do I do?_ _Seven Hells, what do I do? _

_What would Jaime do?_

There were very few situations in which Brienne could imagine that the question _what would Jaime do_ would produce a useful answer, but being at the centre of attention was on that extremely short list. _Jaime would smile, and wave._ She raised a hand to the crowd and tried to smile. _Jaime would enjoy himself._ That was a bit beyond Brienne’s capabilities, but she made an effort to feel at least a little less uncomfortable. Everyone was looking at her, yes, and she was on a horse and accompanied by not one but two banners, _but nobody is laughing. Nobody is sneering. _

Everyone was cheering.

It was exactly like the story she’d told herself, when she’d first plucked up her courage and pushed open the door of Godwin’s gym in Morne. _Why do you want to learn to fight?_ he’d asked her. _If it’s for self-defence, you’d be better off with boxing or grappling._

Brienne had shrugged. _I can already defend myself. I just like the old stories. And I might be good at it. _She hadn’t told him that if she was, it would pretty much be the _only_ thing she’d be good at, the only thing where her size and strength might be admirable rather than just bizarre, but she’d hoped so, all the same. Had imagined winning bouts and being applauded, had imagined being accepted as a peer and an equal.

_Gods be good_, she thought with a sudden shock. _Now I really _have_ to win._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that a bracer isn’t a general wrist guard, it’s for archers to protect against the friction of the bowstring. HOWEVER the relevant armour term, vambrace, pretty much exclusively refers to plate armour, which would not be part of an ‘Age of Ice And Fire’ light armour re-enactment (or cosplay) set. Jaime wants his wench well protected, and he’s pushing the limits of legality.


	115. Jaime XLII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tourney opens.

Jaime couldn’t touch Brienne. He couldn’t even talk to her. Not here, in the arena, where every heartbeat of the opening parade was being Ravengrammed by anyone with a phone and an account. Not even later, with Roose Bolton’s creepy boys sniffing around after Jaime every minute.

But with the visor of his lion’s head helm down, Jaime was entirely free to _look_ at Brienne Tarth as much as he wanted.

_Gods be good, she’s absolutely magnificent. _It had been a stroke of genius to get her measurements from Alerie Hightower to raven to Gendry, and alright, it had been Shae’s stroke of genius, but Jaime was still going to award himself points for having been the one to mention the problem of the armour to Shae in the first place.

Gendry had done Brienne proud. _And himself, of course, given she’s a walking billboard for his skills and he’ll have so many orders after this he’ll probably need to take on a couple of apprentices_. All in shades of blue from head to foot, of course, which Jaime hadn’t thought to ask for but which was absolutely fucking perfect, as the crowd had quickly noticed. She sat on Sugar as if she’d been born to ride before adoring crowds, _well, as far as I’m concerned she _was_, it’s just taken the crowds a little time and help to get with the program. _Varys and his little birds had provided a fair bit of that help, although Margaery Tyrell re-ravenning the RookTube footage of Brienne fighting at previous faires with the comment _that’s _my_ #BlueKnight _hadn’t exactly hurt, nor had Renly’s _#BlueKnight _Ravengram of a ten-second snippet from Ulwyck Uller’s program, just Willa Manderly saying _And then I heard this voice, this woman’s voice, and she said Leave her be, if you want to rape someone, try me. _As efforts to make amends for being a complete cunt went, it hadn’t been half-bad. Renly might not have as many followers as Margaery but between the ones who’d been fans of his films, the ones who saw him as a gay-rights role model, and the ones who started following him once he won the Great Council, plenty of people had seen and feathered and re-ravened it.

So, alright, Jaime might not punch Renly next time he saw him after all. _Which is probably a good thing given he’s now Prime Minister of the Seven Kingdoms. _

_I wonder how Tyrion’s going with that knighthood? Ser Brienne has a nice ring to it._

The only thing that marred the moment, as far as Jaime was concerned, was that Brienne had a tourney sword on her hip, not Oathkeeper. Oh, he understood why – a priceless Valyrian steel sword wasn’t the sort of thing you flaunted around hundreds of people who’d willingly give up a hand to own one, for one thing, and for another the lion-headed golden hilt was about as ostentatiously _Lannister_ as it was possible to get, which wasn’t the impression they were trying to give at _all_.

_Still. If I was still making _Oathkeeper_, I’d have her all in blue, in plate of course, with Oathkeeper on her hip. To the Seven Hells with the fact that it was Goldenhand’s sword, they both have the same hilt and no-one but she and I will know the difference. _They’d have to get a prop version for the stunts, of course – Brienne was insanely talented but accidents happened and it would put a dampener on production if she skewered a stuntman. _But that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll get – _

But no, he wouldn’t get anyone, because _he_ wasn’t making _Oathkeeper_, and Brienne wasn’t playing the Blue Knight, and he’d go to the Seven Hells himself before he let his father take that last thing from him and give some other Blue Knight Brienne’s sword, even in replica.

_But I won’t think about that. Not today. _Not when Brienne was pink cheeked and actually smiling a little shyly at being the well-deserved centre of attention, tall and strong and looking like the Warrior Herself. Safely concealed by his helm, Jaime himself was grinning until his cheeks ached. 

Renly was on his feet, waiting for the crowd to notice and stop shouting _Blue Knight, Blue Knight! _It was the first time Jaime could remember that the Prime Minister had actually officiated at a tourney. It was usually some minor functionary, sometimes a member of the Great Council, _very_ occasionally a Small Council member – Masters of War tended to be the ones with enough interest in even archaic military matters to be bothered – and on one memorable occasion, an extremely drunk Robert Baratheon who’d done it on a dare from Cersei.

But Renly was here, and he’d obviously decided that it was good for his approval ratings to get into the spirit of things, because his clothes were on the fine line between fashionable and authentically third century, and the hat he wore to protect his complexion from the sun _could_ – if you squinted hard enough – have been a crown. Jaime narrowed his eyes. _With ye olde timey Baratheon stag antlers, no less_. So alright, the asshole had done some research, which Jaime had to grudgingly give him another half-a-point for. _Just half, though_.

The crowd eventually started to notice Renly and quieten down. One last shout of _I love you, Blue Knight_ rang out, causing a ripple of laughter, and then there was an expectant pause.

“My friends,” Renly said, his voice carrying easily despite the size of the arena. _He’s mic’d_, Jaime realised. Robert, of course, had just bellowed, but Robert had always had a voice that could stop a bar brawl in its tracks and quite possibly stun birds in flight. “Well met, my friends. It’s wonderful to see so many here today, at such an important celebration of our historical traditions and our most timeless virtues. Soon we will see the most skilled demonstrations of the martial arts of the age of ice and fire that, I think, any generation has been privileged to watch – even, perhaps, those from the third century itself. But in that demonstration we will also see the qualities that we so rightly value still. Bravery. Determination. Persistence. Diligence. And no less important – honour. Fairness. Mercy.” That got a cheer, and Jaime found he couldn’t quite mock it, either. _I would have, once. I would have had a whole little speech ready about the historical accounts of rape and robbery, about how chivalry was all aurochshit dreamt up to throw a cloak of respectability over trained thugs –_

But that had been before. Before Brienne, and her oh-so-naïve belief in the ideals of knighthood which had turned out to be not even remotely naïve when applied to _her_. And maybe, just maybe, if he gave Renly the extreme benefit of the doubt, the preening popinjay had learned the value of those ideals from knowing Brienne, and the speech wasn’t just some focus-group-tested pap. 

“And so, my friends, I declare this tourney open!” Renly finished, and Jaime had to give him another half-a-point for understanding that men and women in plate armour didn’t much enjoy standing in the sun. There was only one more formality before they’d all disperse to wait for their bouts in the comfort of their own shaded pavilions – the favours.

Jaime had never worn one, in all the tourneys he’d fought in. He couldn’t openly wear Cersei’s, and he wouldn’t wear any other woman’s. Today, he longed to wear Brienne’s – even knowing he was unlikely to survive the first round – and he longed for her to wear his. _But that’s not possible. _Tyrion had been _very_ clear.

Tyrion had also been very devious. Oberyn Martell was in the stands, arm around the shoulders of Ellaria Sand, and as Jaime watched he stood up, using his trained actor’s voice to cut through the noise of the crowd. “Blue Knight! Brienne!”

For a moment Brienne sat motionless, and then Jaime realised she wasn’t ignoring Oberyn, she just had no idea how to make Sugar take her over to the rail. “Peck,” he called. “Peck!”

Peck was blessedly quick of mind, and he hastily shoved his banner at young Podrick and took Sugar’s reins just below her jaw to lead her to the edge of the area.

Ellaria stood up as well, drawing off the filmy scarf over her shoulders – and exposing well-toned arms and a great deal of ample bosom in the process. She leaned forward and tied the scarf – blue, _of course_, because Tyrion left little and less to chance – around Brienne’s arm. “Be our champion, Tarth the Tall.”

“I will,” Brienne said, barely audible over the rising cheers of the crowd.

Jaime grinned behind his visor. _That will go viral. Is she seeing him? Her? Both of them?_ Oberyn and Ellaria and their strange – to the more conservative kingdoms at least – relationship was a source of endless fascination to precisely those people who professed themselves scandalised by it, and they were regularly in the top five of the _Gulltown Gossip’s_ annual readers’ poll on _most desirable couple_.

Visibly blushing even with her helm on, Brienne was led back to her place by Peck. A few more competitors were called out and went forward to receive their favours, and then –

“Sandor! Sandor Clegane!” It was Arya Stark’s piercing voice. “Sandor! Over here!”

Jaime could not remember Sandor receiving a single favour in any tourney where they’d both competed and when Sandor pushed up the visor of his dog’s-head helmet that had given him the nickname of _The Hound_ he looked as baffled as Jaime felt. He strode over to the rail, and Jaime was almost certain he heard Sandor growl “What the fuck?”

Sansa Stark pulled a ribbon from her hair and handed it to Arya, who leaned forward and tied it around Sandor’s wrist. “Don’t get hurt,” she said firmly. “Because when you come to Winterfell, I want you to train me as well as Robb.”

“I’ll try, my lady,” Sandor almost snarled, and turned to stalk back to his place with Arya’s _I’m not a lady_ ringing out behind him.

And then it was Jaime’s turn. Tyrion had gone back and forth on the question for hours, until Jaime’s eyes were crossing from boredom and Bronn had given up even pretending not to be playing _Lemon Cake Crunch _on his phone. Arianne Martell had been considered, and dismissed – _too much blow-back on the Arys front_, Tyrion had said. Oberyn and Ellaria had been in the running for a little while, but the prospect of people speculating about a foursome between the two of them and Brienne and Jaime had decided Tyrion against him. Margaery Tyrell had been an option, until Tyrion had concluded that her revolving door of paramours would diminish the effect he sought.

“Gold Lion!” Asha Greyjoy was on her feet. _Well, it makes a nice change from _Kingslayer_, I suppose_, Jaime thought. “Gold Lion, will you wear my favour?”

Jaime strolled forward. “I will.”

She leaned over the rail and fastened – _seaweed, of course it’s fucking seaweed, it really is a conspiracy_ – around his upper arm. “Fight well for me, Golden Lion,” she said with all the fierceness that she brought to stage and screen.

“I will,” Jaime said. If he’d been a different man, he would have been in danger then: Asha Greyjoy wasn’t pretty but she was immensely magnetic and the intensity of her stare offered all sorts of promises.

But he was Jaime Lannister. He was not like other men, and other men were not like him. He bowed to Asha and walked back to his place and took the opportunity to get another good look at Brienne as she sat, utterly upright, on Sugar’s back.

And she _knew._ There was no way she could – Jaime was sure of that, he hadn’t moved his head at all, only cut his eyes in her direction – but the second his eyes touched her she turned. It was impossible for her to be able to see through his visor –

But her gaze met his, regardless of how impossible it was, her absurdly, brilliantly blue gaze, and she lifted her chin a little and gave the smallest smile –

And mouthed _Pentos_.


	116. Brienne L

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne faces an entirely unexpected opponent.

“I’ve watched all his fights,” Podrick said earnestly. “He’s got a strong overhand –”

“Roof,” Brienne corrected, fiddling with the buckle on her bracer. _Is it too tight? How would I know?_ The armour Jaime had paid Gendry to make for her was far better – and more complex – than the simple coat-of-plate she’d laboured to make for herself. “He likes the roof, and he’s quick to transition. I know, Pod. I’ve fought Farrow before.”

“Did you win?” Podrick asked.

Brienne gave him a level look, and he flushed. “Yes, Pod. I won.”

“I’m sorry,” he said humbly. “I don’t know how to help.”

_Oh, Pod. _Of course he didn’t. “I’ve fought a lot of these people before,” Brienne told him. “And the ones I haven’t, I’ve watched on RookTube. You can leave all that to me. What I’ll need is for you to help me in between bouts.”

“I will!” Pod said eagerly. “How?”

“Meet me at the edge of the arena with one of those drinks –” Brienne pointed at the cooler of Red Stallion. “And one of those blackberry oatcakes. If there’s a delay, and I come back here, keep everyone outside. And if I need to use one of the Portaprivies, it would help if you waited outside so no-one barges in on me.”

“I can do that, I can do all that!”

She smiled at him. “Of course you can, Pod. You’ve always been really very good, like at Moat Cailin, when I had that nasty shock, and at White Harbour, when you fetched Gendry and helped Willa Manderly. I know I can rely on you.” That was laying it on a bit thick, perhaps, because at every other tourney Brienne had been in she’d tucked a bag with a bottle of water and a handful of raisins beside the rail, and braced the door of the Portaprivy closed with her foot. She’d never had anyone to do a squire’s duty and she’d never felt the lack – but Podrick needed to feel useful, and valuable, and so Brienne would rely on him to do things she’d usually manage herself. “And keep a track of my schedule,” she said. “I’m sure Pia has it, so stay in touch with her, in case there are any changes.”

He nodded. “I’ve done that. We – Pia, and Peck, and me – we’re all linked together. So whoever finds anything out, they can tell the others right away.”

Brienne smiled. “Great. You’re on top of everything already. Alright, I need to go to the arena.”

Pod seized a bottle of Red Stallion and a cling-wrapped oatcake, and followed her out of the tent.

Richard Farrow might have been a difficult opponent, if he’d ever changed his tactics and if he’d ever learned from his defeats. Brienne kept her distance, kept him moving, waited until he tired and then stepped straight past his downstroke and took him in the throat with the hilt of her sword. He went down, and didn’t get up.

That was only what she’d expected. She hadn’t expected, though, that a cheer would go up from the edges of the arena. _Blue Knight!_ she heard. _Blue Knight! _Turning, she saw that the rail was thronged three deep at least – far from the usual scattering of spectators who hadn’t been able to get tickets for the heavy armour bouts. _Blue Knight!_ they shouted, waving blue flags and pennants. _Blue Knight!_

Brienne raised her hand to acknowledge them. _Jaime did this. _She had no idea how, but she was certain of it. _Jaime did all this. _

Podrick was waiting at the rail, bottle in one hand, oatcake in the other. “Edmund Ambrose next,” he said. 

Brienne took a bite, washed it down with a swallow of Red Stallion, and gave both back to him. “Who’s winning on the other side of the draw?”

“Pia hasn’t ravened,” Pod said.

_Well, find out_, Brienne wanted to say, except she’d never had anyone to find out for her in the past and she’d always done fine without, even won more than once – much and more than once, in fact. So instead she nodded, and ducked back under the rail to face Edmund Ambrose.

After she’d seen off Ed Ambrose, there was Ben Bushy to dispatch, and then Raymond Nayland. Will the Stork followed, and after him Harry Sawyer, and finally Robin Potter. Some of them were fast, some of them were strong, one or two were both, but none of them were strong and fast and smart, and none of them had ever bothered to work half as hard as Brienne had.

And none of them were a challenge. In years past, when they’d been the crowd favourites, Brienne _had_ needed to draw on all her self-control to stick to her strategy as the few people watching a light armour class cheered her opponent’s flashy moves and booed every time she backpedalled and ducked and sidestepped a blow. _Just win_, she’d told herself. _Just do what you know to do to win, not what they want to see_. But this year, somehow, what she knew to do to win was exactly what the crowd wanted to see. Every blow she slipped brough a roar of approval. When she dived under Bushy’s side-cut, rolled, and came up behind him the noise was startlingly loud. Will the Stork swung hard at her ankles and she hopped easily over the blade and dodged to his blind spot, she was nearly deafened by the cheers.

It was just what she’d always done. _Watch and wait. Let them come to you. Let them underestimate you. Make them run, wear them down. _Brienne was big and she was strong, bigger and stronger than many men, but Godwin had drilled it into her head. _There’s always someone bigger. There’s always someone stronger. There’s even always someone faster. _

_Be smarter. Be more patient. _

And so she’d never tried for any of the flashy, crowd-pleasing attacks. She’d always watched, and waited, and made her opponents work far harder than she herself was, and let them think she wasn’t confident enough to return their blows. _Backstep Brienne_, she’d heard Ed Ambrose sneer once.

After she’d trounced him in the arena.

Last year, she’d placed first in enough tourneys – and second in the rest, Lyonel Storm being her most reliably talented opponent – to take the title for the year. This year, she wouldn’t have the points – she’d missed the entire first half of the year – but if she could meet Laughing Lyonel in the final bout and beat him, in front of hundreds of people cheering her on, it would be enough.

Podrick was there at the rail between each bout, but he never mentioned how the other side of the draw was progressing, and Brienne didn’t nag him to find out. _It doesn’t matter. I’ve fought all of them. I’ve beaten them all, one time or another, and only a few of them have ever beaten me. _

And for the first time, the fact that she was winning – not whirling her sword around like a B-grade movie hero, not showering sparks with blows striking blade against blade, just fighting the way fighting should be, and _winning_ – seemed to matter. Every time she raised her eyes to the rails, there were more and more people. _Gods be good, there are more people here than usually watch the heavy class_. And they were cheering, and applauding – and gasping when a blow came her way, and yelling approval when she slipped it. At the end of every bout the chant of _Blue Knight! Blue Knight! Blue Knight! _went up. Brienne spotted Arya at the rail, Oberyn and Ellaria further back in the crowd – Thoros Myr slightly out of time with everyone else – Margaery Tyrell and Arianne Martell in full third-century costume, waving blue kerchiefs.

_Jaime Lannister, you are the most ridiculous man alive_. Because he had done this, although Brienne couldn’t work out how. Some alchemy of Ravengram and celebrity and carefully placed tabloid stories, no doubt, had brought all these people here today.

_He might have got them here – but if they hated seeing me, he couldn’t fix that. _The cheers, the applause – Jaime couldn’t have made that happen, not without paying off every single member of the crowd. _And I know he keeps saying he’s rich, but no-one’s _that_ rich. _

Jaime had drawn them here to watch her, and they’d watched her – and they’d decided to cheer.

Brienne turned, leaning against the rail. She wasn’t all that tired, but it didn’t do any harm to let her next opponent assume she’d been worn out by her earlier bouts. “Well, Pod? Do we know who won the other side of the draw?”

“We do.” Arthur Dayne ducked under the rail and faced her. “I did.”


	117. Jaime XLIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blue Knight faces the Morningstar ...

Jaime dragged the cap further down and studied his reflection in the mirror he usually used to check that all the buckles of his armour were fully fastened. _No need for armour again, not this tourney._ Garlan Tyrell had seen Jaime off in the first round, as he’d predicted. _Although I did last longer than I’d expected, so there’s that. _“There. No-one will recognise me.”

Tyrion sighed. “Dear brother, now you look like Jaime Lannister in a hat.”

“There are a thousand people there! No-one will notice me –”

“Except the person standing next to you, who will snap a photo and Ravengram it,” Tyrion pointed out. 

Jaime scowled at him. “I have to be there. It’s the final. If I can’t be _with_ her, I at least _have to be there_.”

“I knew you’d say that, brother mine, because I know _you_. Calm down. I have a plan, although you might not like it.” He turned. “Bronn!”

Bronn ducked into the tent, wearing a particularly evil grin. _And he’s a man who specialises in evil grins. _“I’m going to enjoy this, pretty boy,” he said, and raised –

_Barber’s clippers. _Jaime backed away. “What in the seven hells –”

“Varys always says the art of disguise is to distract rather than conceal,” Tyrion said, a little smugly.

“People have seen me without my beard, Tyrion,” Jaime pointed out. “For most of my life, in fact.”

“Ah, but they’ve never seen you without your _hair_,” Tyrion said.

Jaime gaped at him. “My hair? You want me to _shave my head_?”

“Actually I’m the one who’s going to be shaving your head,” Bronn said, and although Jaime wouldn’t have thought it was physically possible, his grin got more evil still.

Jaime clutched his hat protectively. “Did I do something to the two of you that I don’t know about?”

Tyrion sighed. “Jaime. In a hat and sunglasses, you look like someone trying not to be recognised, which will immediately make everyone rack their brains to try and work out who you are. Shave off your hair and your beard, and you’re just one more bald man in the crowd. It’s the last thing you’d ever do, so no-one will think you’d do it. They might think _Seven Hells, that bald man looks a bit like Jaime Lannister might if he cut off his hair_ but they certainly won’t think _Seven Hells, that’s bald Jaime Lannister_.”

“They wouldn’t think that I’d do it because I _wouldn’t_ do it.” Jaime took another step backwards as Bronn advanced. “_You_ might be able to do your job bald as an egg, but _I_, on the other hand …” He stopped. “Oh, Stranger fuck me frozen, little brother. There’ll be no way I can play Goldenhand in _Oathkeeper_ until my hair grows at least halfway back. Father will have an apoplexy.”

“Exactly,” Tyrion said, and his grin rivalled Bronn’s. “And you can just tell him you were drunk, and it was a dare – or say you were asleep and I did it out of jealousy, he’ll believe that. Or say your hairline started receding so you took a leaf out of his book and shaved it all off.”

“Unless you’re worried your bird won’t fancy you bald,” Bronn said speculatively. 

Jaime snorted. “I doubt she’ll be able to tell over _Whisper_.” He yanked the cap off, and sat on the stool. “Go on then, do your worst.”

Ten minutes later, Jaime looked in the mirror and saw a man he didn’t know. Not only was he bald, but he looked as if he’d aged five years. Without the beard, or the hair falling over his forehead and curling around his cheeks, his face was thinner, with hollows under his eyes and lines he didn’t know he’d had. He rubbed a hand over his bare scalp. “Brother, I got old.”

“Brother, you need to eat more and get a decent night’s sleep,” Tyrion corrected. He held out a T-shirt. “Now, come on, put this on.”

Jaime took it and shook it out. “Mormont colours?”

“Again, no-one would ever think you’d –”

Jaime dragged his own shirt over his head and pulled the _Here We Stand_ shirt on in its place, wishing it said _Harden The Fuck Up_ instead. _Much less awkward on a T Shirt than on a banner. _He grinned, thinking about Maege’s face if he had one made up and sent to her. “Alright, but if Maege Mormont sees me, I’m sending her in your direction.”

“She’ll see you,” Tyrion said, putting his hand on Jaime’s arm and pushing him towards the door of the tent. “You’re sitting with the Mormont contingent.”

Jaime resisted his brother’s urging. “The Mormonts are here? All the way from Bear Island?”

Tyrion shrugged. “Apparently one of them is in the junior competition. Go on. You don’t want to miss Brienne’s bout.”

“How will I find them?” Jaime asked as he ducked out of the tent.

“Right in front of you,” a tall, lanky woman answered. Not as tall as Brienne, not quite as tall as Jaime, but _tall_, nonetheless, with a long face that gave her something of a Stark look. She stuck out her hand. “Dacey. _Cousin._”

Jaime shook it. “Well met, coz.”

Dacey Mormont jerked her chin in the direction of the area. “We’re up here.”

Jaime fell into step beside her. “The Mormont in the junior competition … is it Lyanna, by any chance?”

She nodded. “You’ve seen her fight?”

“No, but my wife’s told me about her. Ten feet of fight in four foot of girl, she says.”

Dacey grinned, and it transformed her whole face. “Aye, that’s our Lyanna. Ma is that glad she’s found herself this as a hobby. She’s always said that Lyanna would end up either prime minister of the Seven Kingdoms or the queen of a criminal cartel, and with any luck this will tip the scales towards the first.”

They reached the stands, and Jaime followed Dacey up the stairs. _Tyrion was right_. He didn’t get a second glance, just one more stranger in a Mormont T shirt following a Mormont to the rest of the Mormonts. “She sounds either amazing or terrifying.”

That got another of Dacey’s lovely grins. “Try both. And try living with her. Ma – I’ve got him.”

The Mormonts were not a small contingent, for all they were a small island. Jaime nodded and smiled and edged past politely withdrawn knees to the seat Dacey pointed out, between Maege and a young girl with the same long, plain face as Dacey. Maege held out her hand – her _left_ hand – for Jaime to shake. _Half courtesy, half test._ He shook it, covered her hand with his right as well and gripped as hard as he could.

She gave him the trace of a smile. “You’ve worked hard.”

“I hardened the fuck up,” Jaime shot back, and sat down. He turned to the child. “Hello. I’m your cousin, apparently, for today at least.”

She gave him a level, wintery stare that would have done credit to Eddard Stark. “I know who you are. Your brother told Catelyn Stark that Brienne Tarth would be glad to have you here. She asked Ma to help. The Mormonts have been friends to the Starks since a thousand years before the age of ice and fire. We will not break faith today.”

Jaime blinked. “Have you ever thought about being in movies?”

“Is that supposed to flatter me?” she shot back.

_Crone’s cunt. What I could do with her in front of a camera …_ “I’m guessing you’re Lyanna?” he said. “Brienne’s Lyanna?”

Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”

Jaime smiled – not his charming smile, to try and win her over, but because _of course_ this was exactly the sort of girl who would ask Brienne for advice. “Ten foot of fight in four foot of girl.” 

The corners of Lyanna’s mouth turned up, and the little girl she still was peeked through her stone façade. “She said that?”

“She did. And I wasn’t flattering you. You should think about it, especially since you can fight. It’s good money, and you could just do a few and quit.”

Lyanna looked at him for a moment. “Good money like Oldtown fees?”

Jaime nodded. “What would you study?”

“Aquaculture.”

“Aquaculture?”

Lyanna nodded firmly. “There’s not much fishing around Bear Island but in a closed system we could control the water temperature and create the right environment for halibut. Nowhere else is far enough north for that, and there’s a reason they’re endangered – because people like to eat them.”

“Just halibut?” Jaime asked. “Wouldn’t something like oysters have a better margin?”

“Everyone does them, though.” Lyanna shrugged. “And some are really shit.”

“Learn to grow ones that aren’t, then, and brand them,” Jaime suggested. He tugged the front of his T - shirt, drew it tight. “Even people who don’t know a thing about the age of ice and fire recognise the bear. You can mark the shell – I’ve seen it, in Essos – Bear Island Oysters, quality guaranteed.”

“That’s …” Lyanna eyed him suspiciously. “Not a terrible idea.”

Jaime managed not to laugh. _Gods be good, she’s a Myrish mafia boss in miniature. _“I’m pretty sure you could fund a degree in aquaculture at the Citadel with a few movies. And with a few more, you could probably pay for the … tanks or whatever, too.”

She studied him intently. “Is it hard? I mean, I know not very, because you do it, but do you think I could do it?”

Jaime managed to supress his smile. “I don’t know if you can act, but the right role, you wouldn’t need to, and yes, I think you could.”

She opened her mouth to reply but a great roar from the crowd cut her off. Jaime turned to see Brienne striding into the centre of the arena. Even at this distance, even with her face hidden by her helm, her height and strength were unmistakable. And behind her, her opponent –

Jaime was on his feet without knowing how he’d got there. “Crone’s chilly cunt, Arthur fucking _Dayne_?” 

Maege seized his arm. “Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.”

He subsided into his seat. “He fights heavy class – and he hasn’t entered a tourney in years!”

“Then she’ll wipe the floor with him,” Maege said.

_He’s Arthur fucking Dayne._ He was Dawnstar Gyms, he was the Morningstar from _The Magnificent Seven_, he was everything Jaime had ever wanted to be as a fighter and an actor both. _And he didn’t quit the tourney circuit because he was getting past it, either. _Jaime had seen him spar since then, and Dayne hadn’t lost a step, despite his age. _I mean, the man still does his own stunts for the _Quest Impossible _movies_. _No, he stopped competing because he felt it was only honourable to give someone else a chance._

He was fast and strong and skilled, and he had decades of experience on Brienne. _But he fights heavy, wench. Like I do. He has the same instincts. You’ve sparred with me, you’ve watched me with Sandor, you know which way my nerves twitch. _

_Arthur will be the same, wench. You can use that. You can use that to beat him._

The two figures strode out to the centre of the arena and took their places at the opposite sides of the square. Dayne was tall, but Brienne was taller. She would have the advantage of reach. _Use that too, wench. _Gods be good, but he hoped she’d seen footage of Dayne’s old tourney fights. _Not that she would have studied them the way she studies her opponents. _Because Dayne no longer competed, and when he had, it had been in the far more prestigious heavy armour class, and Brienne could never have imagined she’d find herself facing him across the square.

The trumpet blew, and the crowd held their collective breath.

Both Brienne and Dayne had chosen a longsword for this tourney, no shield. That had always been Dayne’s preference, but Jaime remembered Brienne saying she preferred arming. _I insulted her over it. Crone’s cunt, I hope she’s not fighting with a style she doesn’t favour just because of that. _But she looked good, looked calm and steady, as she raised her blade, choosing – _as she always does_ – the Plow. Jaime approved. _Predictable and conservative, yes, but it’s predictable because it’s the best option. _Dayne shifted his feet, the tip of his sword dipping towards the ground. _The Fool. _Jaime cursed Dayne to each of the seven hells. _He’s going to make her come to him. That’s not how she fights, and I bet he knows it. _

_Stranger fuck you, Arthur, what evil humour possessed you to fucking come out of retirement just to ruin my wench’s tourney? _

Brienne stood calmly, or at least with the appearance of calm – if she was anything like Jaime, her heart would be pounding. Once the fight started, once steel sang and screamed, _then_ there was no nerves, no calculation, no _time_, but in those last moments before …

“Is the Morningstar scared of a girl?” Brienne called, the words clearly audible in the expectant hush that gripped the entire arena.

“Is the Blue Knight scared of an old man?” Dayne parried.

“Surely your aged eyes are still good enough to see where I am.”

“Surely your young legs are strong enough for you take a step.”

“Did you come to dance or to talk?”

“I came for a fight, but it seems there’s none to be had.”

_Attack,_ Jaime urged Dayne silently. _Go on, Arthur. Attack!_ In a moment the crowd would start to grow bored, and then restless. _Get on with it, man!_

But it was Brienne who broke the stalemate. Jaime groaned aloud as she moved forward, her steps sure and small and quick. Dayne waited just long enough for her to be committed to the decision and then he was moving forward as well, fast – _fucking fast for anyone, let alone a man of his age –_ too fast for Brienne to backpedal, _too fucking fast, Brienne …_

And then Brienne changed direction, quick as a cat. She ducked under Dayne’s rising blade and was suddenly behind him. The crowd roared approval as Dayne spun. He barely managed to parry Brienne’s neat, economical blow and Brienne back peddled. She did the same to Jaime when they sparred, and Sandor. _She’s as fast on the backstep as the advance_. Dayne had to choose whether to chase her or not and chose _not_, only turning to keep her in view. Brienne advanced again, and again Dayne started closing fast, _because of course he would, the way I do, because you want that momentum in plate armour_ but it was exactly the wrong way to treat Brienne, who was light on her feet a maiden at her first ball and who _knew_, bone-deep instinct, that she was not wearing a third her weight again in shaped metal. She spun away again, sword sliding into Ox to guard but Dayne couldn’t change direction fast enough for her to need it. _That’s my wench!_ Dayne was realising now that his strategy wasn’t going to work, and he followed Brienne this time, trying to close with her, but she kept moving back, and back again, circling, dodging … _How good is Arthur’s wind? _Jaime wondered if Brienne could hear him panting yet, because surely she’d be listening for it. _He’ll never run her down, no matter how fit he is. _His wench worked harder than anyone Jaime had ever seen. _I only lasted as long against Garlan today as I did because trying to keep up with her has me in the best shape of my life. _

Brienne possibly _could_ hear Dayne panting, because Dayne was taking risks that told Jaime, and everyone watching who knew tourney fighting, that he had realised he needed to finish the bout faster than Brienne did. _And Brienne takes no risks at all_. Her patience was inhuman, and not just when compared to Jaime’s own entire _lack _of that virtue. Again and again she dodged and ducked, again and again she backed and sidestepped, again and again she forced Dayne to go on the attack or resign himself to defence.

And then Jaime found himself on his feet as Brienne made her first mistake of the bout. She backed, moved to her right, and it was one too many times in that direction – _always her favourite_ – and Dayne was there to meet her. She parried, leapt away, but Dayne was after her now and their swords met again, and again. _Wench. Come on, wench. Don’t let him through. You’re strong enough. _Steel scraped and sparked, Dayne raining blows, and yet somehow Brienne was able to counter them all, fighting backwards, trying to find an instant to dodge clear –

_He’s going to force her over the edge of the square. _A win by disqualification, but a win all the same. “The edge!” he shouted, despite being too far for her to hear over the din of steel meeting steel. “Watch the edge!”

Other voices took up the cry, and Brienne spared one glance behind her. She must have realised her danger, because she set her feet and stood her ground, meeting and matching Dayne’s blows with her strength and reflexes alone. But that was where Dayne excelled, in close quarters, and for all Brienne could keep him from touching her, she couldn’t find the space to return a blow before Dayne was striking again. 

Beside Jaime, Lyanna was on her feet, standing on her seat. “Get him, Brienne, get him!” she screamed. “He’s right there! Get him, he’s _right there!_”

_Is he slowing? _Jaime couldn’t be sure, and then, in the next moment, he _was_ sure, because Brienne managed to send a blow in Arthur Dayne’s direction, and then another, in between parries. Suddenly it was _Dayne _giving ground, a step, another, _Dayne _who was struggling to keep Brienne’s blade away.

And then he reached a little too far on the parry and Brienne came back in the instant with a backslash –

Jaime _felt_ Dayne’s mistake before he saw it, felt it even before Dayne moved, because he fought heavy class and so did Arthur Dayne and his nerves twitched in response to that bout-finishing blow, twitched to raise a steel-clad forearm and knock the sword aside.

Except this was the Light Armour Class, and Dayne’s arm was _not_ protected by steel and Brienne’s blunt tourney sword landed with all her considerable strength.

Give Dayne credit, he managed to stumble backwards, getting his sword up again one-handed, even with his left arm hanging loose and his wrist at not-quite-the-right angle.

“Get him!” Lyanna yelled again. “Get him, Brienne, he’s right there!”

Brienne stood still, and so did Arthur Dayne. A hush settled over the arena.

“Do you yield?” Brienne asked at last.

Dayne laughed. “These old knees don’t bend easily, but yes.” He dropped his sword to the trampled dirt. “I yield, Brienne Tarth.”

Instantly Brienne dropped her own sword and hurried to him. “How bad is it? I’m so sorry, Mr Dayne, I’m so sorry –”

Whatever else she said, and whatever he replied, it was lost in the deafening cheers of the crowd. Out in the arena, Brienne pulled off her helm and cast it aside, stooping to study Arthur Dayne’s wrist. Dayne pulled his own helm off as well, and then slung his good arm around Brienne’s shoulders and turned her to face one side of the arena, then the next, and then the next. He was grinning, although his face was pale, while Brienne’s forehead was furrowed with concern and she kept stealing glances at what, Jaime would have bet money, was her opponent’s broken arm.

Jaime grinned, adjusting himself as discreetly as he could. _Arthur’s making sure everyone gets the picture, Arthur Dayne the good loser, Brienne Tarth the compassionate victor. _ Then Brienne was helping Arthur from the field, shouting something and waving her free hand. A vaguely familiar bulky form squeezed under the rail and jogged over to them. _It’s that Tarly boy, the one who wants to be a maester_, Jaime realised. Brienne turned Arthur over to his care and strode ahead of them. She seized one of the railings and hauled it free of the fence by main force, opening a way for Arthur to leave the area.

The cheering, which had continued unabated, picked up in volume at that. _Blue Knight, Blue Knight, Blue Knight! _Jaime joined in with the rest, Lyanna’s shrill voice raised beside him. _Blue Knight, Blue Knight, Blue Knight! _Tarly helped Arthur out of the arena and Brienne jogged back to pick up the swords. _Blue Knight! Blue Knight! Blue Knight! _She scooped them from the ground and straightened. Even at this distance, Jaime could see her blushing, but she gathered both swords in one hand and raised the other to the crowd, no matter how uncomfortable he guessed she felt. _There you go, wench. Well done. _

Ellaria Sand was leaning over the railing, a considerable amount of her generous bosom on display. “Blue Knight!” she called. “My champion!”

Brienne went even pinker, but she marched stoically over to the rail and let Ellaria kiss her on each cheek, and then allowed Oberyn to do the same. Finally, to still more cheers from the crowd, she made her escape.

Jaime subsided back into his seat, grinning like a loon. “She won,” he said to no-one in particular, to the air. “She beat Arthur fucking Dayne.”

Maege Mormont punched his shoulder, not at all gently. “I told you she would.”


	118. Jaime XLIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion has a plan. Jaime has allies.

“She was fucking amazing.” Jaime paced from one side of the tent to the other. “Tyrion, you should have seen her, Arthur couldn’t land a single touch on her, and you _know_ how good he is –”

“Yes, you’ve told me. Several times now. Give me your phone.”

Automatically, Jaime took it from his back pocket and handed it over. “Why?”

“Varys?” Tyrion said.

Jaime started as Varys, plump and perfumed, emerged from the shadows. _Crone’s cunt, I would have sworn there was no-one here but Tyrion. _“Hello, Jaime,” he said. “I suppose imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” He ran one beringed hand over his own bald head. “Although I like to think I wear it better.”

“You do,” Jaime agreed.

“Can you make sure Jaime slips Father’s leash for this evening?” Tyrion asked, handing Jaime’s phone to Varys.

Varys took it and made it disappear. “Leave it to me. If anyone asks, Jaime, you spent the evening in your hotel room, watching _The Magnificent Seven_, and then ravened your brother for a while before going to bed.”

“I did? I mean, of course, I did.” Jaime glanced down at his brother. “Tyrion? I take I’m not going to be doing any of those things?”

“Well, you’re entirely able to, if that’s your preference, but I thought you might like to visit your lovely wife instead.”

“Brienne?” Jaime’s heart began to race. “I can see Brienne? Father won’t know?”

“He will not,” Tyrion assured him. “I arranged for her to have a room at _The Stinking Goose_.”

“But Roose and his boys will know to watch her – especially if they realise they lost sight of me –”

Tyrion chuckled. “Jaime, dear brother, I never thought I’d have the opportunity to say this to you, but you really need to pay more attention to history. Not third century history, in this case, but fifty-year-old development applications for the historical precinct of Rosby. The original owners of _The Stinking Goose_ wanted to go all in on authenticity. _Including_ a secret passage.” He took a cheap phone out of his pocket and offered it to Jaime. “Brienne’s number is on there, so you can let her know before you burst out of her fireplace.”

“Tyrion.” Jaime dropped to his knees and flung his arms around his brother. “You’re amazing.”

Tyrion patted his shoulder. “Yes, I know. Now go on with you – _not_ that way. Under the back. Bronn is waiting for you at the end of the row, he’ll slip any tail you have. Go see your wife.”

Jaime hugged him a moment longer, and then sat back on his heels. “Thank you. Tyrion. _Thank_ you.”

Tyrion waved him away “Go! I have work to do.”

Jaime went to the back of the tent, lay down, and rolled under the rear flap. He found himself in a narrow corridor of canvas and pegged ropes, and picked his way along until he could see Bronn lounging against a pole.

“Took your time,” Bronn said. “Come on, then.”

He sauntered off through the temporary city of dressing tents and pavilions that sprang up every tourney. Jaime followed, glancing back over his shoulder occasionally. He couldn’t see anyone following him, didn’t recognise anyone … _but hasn’t that boy been behind me for a while now?_ “Bronn.”

“I know,” Bronn said. “Don’t get your smallclothes in a splice.”

“But I think –”

“And I know, and here’s our solution.” He jerked his chin toward a cross-corridor.

Jaime looked that way, and saw … _Arya Stark?_ She pelted pell-mell towards them, dodging past a competitor just emerging from his tent in full plate, ducking under a tray of sweetmeats being carried to craft services. She gave Jaime one bright grin, spun past him, and the next minute he heard her yelp loudly behind him.

He began to turn and Bronn seized his arm. “Don’t waste it,” he said, dragging Jaime onward.

“But she –”

“Knows what she’s doing.”

Behind them, Jaime could hear Arya shouting something about _get your hands off me_ and then Catelyn Stark’s voice at stentorian volume _That is my daughter, young man! Gods be good, she’s a minor!_

“Family of fucking actors,” Bronn said, pulling Jaime around a corner. “This way. In here.” He shoved Jaime through a door, followed him and slammed it behind them.

Jaime looked around. Three tables with chairs, a counter … “Where is this?”

“Currently it’s a café,” Bronn said. “Originally it was a privy.” He vaulted over the counter and bent down to pry at the floor. “Well, are you decorative, or are you purely decorative? Give me a hand.”

Jaime hopped over the counter to see Bronn lifting a flat panel from the floor. He stooped to add his own strength to the effort. “And the café owners?”

“Your brother made it worth their while to take the day off.” Bronn strained, and the panel lifted, revealing a ladder. “Down you go, then. You can’t get lost, Varys says. There’s only one exit, and that’s the fireplace in your wife’s current bedroom.”

“Thank the Seven it’s not a chilly night.” Jaime began to climb down the ladder.

“Wait.” Bronn pulled a runner’s headlamp from his pocket and put it on Jaime, clicking the switch. “And you have to be back here before six tomorrow morning. They open at seven.”

“Got it,” Jaime called up at him. “Thanks.”

Bronn snickered. “If you want to pay me back, snap a picture of your wife’s face when she sees your new haircut.”

The ladder went down at least ten yards, far enough that Jaime was beginning to wonder if he’d missed an opening in the wall somewhere. Finally he found himself standing on the sandy floor of a long tunnel, walls and roof shored up with wooden props. Bronn – or Varys – had been right: the tunnel had no branches, although it turned a number of times, and it was only ten minutes before Jaime saw another ladder in front of it. At the top of that, a very short brick-lined tunnel, so low he had to crawl, ending in a metal panel with a handle.

He sat back on his heels, having to duck his head, and took out the phone Tyrion had given him. One contact, _B_.

_Wench it’s me_ he typed carefully.

_Have you got a new phone? _she replied immediately, and he realised she must have been waiting for him to _Whisper_ her. 

_Just 4 2nite. _

_Can I call you, then? Or is there someone there?_

Jaime grinned at the phone screen. _Wench, I know you don’t like jump scares, but I hope you like surprises. I’m here._

_Where?_

_Inside your fireplace actually. _

The next moment, the metal panel rattled. Jaime put the phone back in his pocket, took hold of the handle and yanked it open to see Brienne staring at him. “Jaime!”

“Tyrion arranged –” That was as far as he got before Brienne leaned forward and pulled him to her and kissed him, fierce and tender.

She broke the kiss long enough to say “Mind your head,” as she tugged him through the fireplace and into her room, and then they were sprawled on the floor, and gods be good, Jaime had missed touching her, missed kissing her of course but more, missed the feeling of being pressed against her from head to foot with her arms tight around him, missed the way he could wrap his arms around her and hold her as tightly as he wanted and know she was strong enough not to mind. The world was alright again. Tomorrow, perhaps, it wouldn’t be, but for right now all the nagging worry, the frustration, the resentment, melted away. It was like falling asleep and waking up, both at the same time.

“Jaime, I fought Arthur Dayne,” Brienne said after a moment.

He grinned at her. “I know, I was there. You _beat_ Arthur Dayne.”

Her eyes widened. “You were there? But your father …” Then she blinked. “Jaime, what did you do to your hair? Do you have a new role?”

He laughed. “No, and Father will have to wait until it grows back to start filming. It’s Tyrion’s idea of a disguise, and it worked a treat.”

“I don’t see how,” Brienne said, puzzled. “You look like yourself, but without hair.”

“Probably only to you, wench.” Jaime kissed her again. “I was disguised as an anonymous Mormont cousin. I met Lyanna. She’s terrifying. And I saw you beat Arthur fucking Dayne in a tourney fight. Wench. You were amazing.”

She frowned a little, brilliant blue gaze clouding. “I broke his arm. Jaime. I broke _Arthur Dayne’s_ arm.”

“I saw. It was marvellous.”

“But –”

“People get hurt in tourneys all the time, Brienne. Especially in the light class. I’ve broken my arm _twice_, and that’s in heavy. Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten hurt.”

She touched the boxer’s bump on her nose. “More than once.”

"There you are, then." 

“But he’s _Arthur Dayne_.”

“Yes, and you beat him. It was epic. The Blue Knight against the Morningstar. My heart was in my throat when I realised he was smart enough to try and force you on the offensive, but you handled it beautifully. How _are_ you so fast on the cross-step transition, anyway? Is it just natural talent?”

Brienne shook her head. “Godwin made me run around these poles he had set up, in and out. While he whacked me with a stick.”

“Don’t tell Sandor, it’ll give him ideas,” Jaime said, and made her smile.

“I only every sparred against Arthur twice,” Brienne said. “And he beat me both times, easily.” She frowned again. “Do you think Tyrion arranged for him to let me win?”

“Crone’s cunt, no, wench! Arthur’s too honest and too honourable to be a party to it, for one thing, and for another, if you’d let a single one of his blows through _you’d_ be the one with a broken something-or-other. No.” He kissed her gently. “You out-thought, out-lasted, and out-fought him, that’s all there is to it.”

“But he’s _Arthur Dayne_!”

Jaime laughed at her outraged expression. “And you’re _Brienne Tarth_. What did he say to you, at the end? Everyone was cheering so loudly I couldn’t make it out.”

“I said I was so sorry I’d hurt him, and he said he was glad I hadn’t gone easy on him just because he was an old man, because he certainly hadn’t gone easy on me because I’m a girl.” She frowned a little. “And then he said he wasn’t sure which of us would be more famous, me for beating him or him for being defeated by me.”

“I told you. You’re _Brienne Tarth._”

“Because you made me be,” Brienne said. “With the armour. And the favour. And the horse.”

Jaime shook his head. “Oh no, oh no you don’t, wench. All I did was draw their attention to you, that’s all. I mean, it was basically like cutting a trailer for a movie. You can make it really great, but people are still eventually going to see the actual movie and have an opinion.”

Her frown lifted a little. “I didn’t get to see your bout.”

Jaime chuckled ruefully. “Aye, I was out in the first round. Next year, maybe. If I can last to the second day.” He raised his right hand and made a fist. His last two fingers bent more than they had a few months ago, but still, not enough to grip a sword. “I either have to get better with my left or get better. Right now Peck could beat me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, catching his crippled hand and kissing it. “What can I do?”

“You could make sure the curtains are really securely closed so no paps can get a glimpse through a crack.” Jaime grinned. “Because although I’d rather lie on the floor with you than on a feather bed alone, there’s a great big comfortable bed right there we could lie on _together_.”

“Just _lie_ there?” Brienne said coyly, and then blushed scarlet when Jaime gave her his best dirty-old-man grin and eyebrow waggle. She scrambled up and went to the window. “Yes, they’re closed.”

“They get your clothes off, wench, so I can kiss your bruises better.”

Brienne turned a little, hands on the hem of her T-shirt. “Do you have any bruises?”

Jaime got to his feet and flung himself down on the bed. “Come here and find out for yourself.”


	119. Brienne LI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Brienne, a hotel room. NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW!

_If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be naked in front of the most beautiful man in the Seven Kingdoms, and not mind, I would have thought they were a candidate for Maegor’s Hospital_.

And yet, this was her life now, Jaime Lannister lying on her bed, shockingly gorgeous despite being bald as an egg, raising his arms so she could tug the Mormont T-shirt over his head and then lying back to study her with such frank appreciation Brienne couldn’t feel anything but desirable. “I missed this,” she said softly, leaning forward to run her hands over the defined muscles of his stomach.

“I missed this too, wench.” Jaime’s voice was husky.

Brienne shook her head. “I missed feeling like this. Like …” She paused. “Like myself, I suppose. Like myself is who I should be.”

“Wench.” He sat up and pulled her closer, kissing her gently, although she could feel the leashed hunger in the tension of his hands. “Yourself is who you should always be.”

She smiled against his lips. “It’s just easier to remember that when you’re here to remind me.”

“Me too,” Jaime whispered. “Me too, wench.” He paused. “Listen, I don’t want to rush things, but if I don’t get these jeans off I think my dick is going to snap.”

Brienne chuckled, reaching for his fly. “That would be a shame.” She released him. “There, is that better?”

“Oh fuck yes,” Jaime said, and then as her hand closed around him he groaned. “Wench, if you keep doing that I’ll – oh, fuck, oh –” He gasped, and came, moaning against her neck as she stroked him through it. “Sorry,” he said after a moment, leaning limply against her. “You’d think I was four and ten, not four and thirty.” He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Blame the fact that I finally see you again on the same day as I saw you defeat Arthur fucking Dayne. I’m only mortal.”

Brienne smiled. “I’m devastated that the most beautiful man in the Seven Kingdoms can’t control himself around me.”

Jaime chuckled. “If you do start fighting in the heavy class, I’ll have to retire. Because if we ever face each other in the square, I’ll end up throwing you down and taking you in front of the assembled masses.”

“As if you could,” Brienne said, pretending to be insulted.

He raised his head, grinning. “Oh, I’m strong enough.” His grip on her shifted to a grappling hold.

“Jaime –” She could have broken the hold, but not without hurting him, and then he had her on her back, straddling her. “Jaime.”

“Do you yield?” he whispered.

“No.”

“No?” He raised an eyebrow. “But I have you at my mercy, wench.”

“You’re going to have to let me go to get your jeans all the way off,” Brienne pointed out.

Jaime grinned. “And you’re cannily waiting for your opportunity, of course. Hmm, a conundrum. A strategic dilemma. Do I risk pinning you with one hand, and trying to get my pants off with the other?”

Brienne giggled, for what she thought must have been the first time in her life. “I don’t know, do you?”

“Unfortunately for you,” Jaime said smugly, “I’m a master strategist.” He leaned down and kissed her, and _oh_, he knew exactly what she most liked and he was merciless, taking his time to taste the inside of her lips, teasing her tongue with his, until she was melting into the mattress, head spinning, aching for more. She was barely aware that he’d let her go, didn’t care so long as he kept kissing her, and then his weight was on her again, knees nudging hers apart. He was already half-hard again as he pressed against her, rocking gently, and _oh, so good, so good_ …

“Jaime,” she managed to say. “Jaime, please, Jaime, please!”

“Alright, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He cupped her breast, thumb stroking her nipple, and then his hand began to move lower.

That was enough. Brienne wrapped her legs around him, holding him just where she needed, balanced on the crest of the wave until she thought she’d lose her mind with how good it felt and then –

“Jaime!” she screamed as the wave broke, thundering through her over and over again, great wracking shudders of pleasure that went on and on as Jaime held her tight and whispered _there you go, there you go, that’s it – _

One final tidal wave swept over her, leaving her limp and blissful and not really aware of anything except Jaime’s arms around her and Jaime’s voice whispering that she was beautiful, that he was there, that he would take care of her. 

Gradually she remembered that they were in her inn room in Rosby, became aware that they were tangled together, her leg still slung over Jaime’s hip.

“Jaime …” she murmured.

Jaime chuckled a little. “Welcome back. Are you alright?”

“I’m wonderful. You always make me feel so wonderful.”

Jaime kissed her forehead. “You know how to inflate a man’s ego, wench.” 

“Mmmm.” Brienne moved a little, and felt Jaime’s cock against her, well more than half-hard now. She reached down to run her thumb over the tip. “More than just your ego, it seems.”

“Mmmm,” he agreed. “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, Brienne …”

She kept her touch gentle, not enough to finish him just yet. She could bring him off with her hand, or with her mouth – _he always likes that_ – and yet … She was relaxed and warm in the aftermath of her shattering climax but somehow, this time, it wasn’t _enough_, she was satiated but not satisfied, still achingly empty. 

Without thinking about it, she shifted her hips, bringing him closer. _I have no idea how to do this, but I’ve put in a tampon, it can’t be too different …_

“Brienne,” Jaime said, a little strangled. “Brienne, what are you doing?”

“I want you to bed me,” she whispered. “Properly bed me.”

He raised himself on his elbow. “You don’t need to, I’ve told you –”

“I _want_ to,” she said fiercely. “I want to be _with_ you. I want to be together. I want you inside me, Jaime, _please!_”

“Seven Hells,” he said hoarsely, and then he replaced her hand with his own. “Raise your leg a little.”

She did as he asked, and then felt – alright, Doreah had been right, it _was_ odd, Jaime’s hot hardness nudging into her was nothing like a tampon, or his fingers, but it was a good odd, it was a _wonderful_ odd as she stretched to take him inside her. “Oh, Jaime,” she gasped.

“Alright?” he said, strained.

“Yes,” she assured him. “And you? It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

He grinned. “It truly doesn’t hurt, wench.”

“Doreah said it might hurt me a little, at the beginning,” Brienne told him. “So I think you should just go quickly to get that over with.”

“Sure?”

“Sure,” Brienne said.

He surged forward with one powerful thrust of his hips, and there _was_ a pain, a little more than a twinge but not much more, and then he was filling her and she was around him and they were closer together than Brienne had ever imagined she could feel. “Alright?” Jaime asked again.

“Wonderful,” Brienne said. “Jaime.” Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around him, and he groaned. “Jaime, Jaime, Jaime. You feel so good.”

“So do you,” he panted, and then, starting to pull away, “Fuck. Fuck, no condoms.” 

Brienne tightened her legs around his hips and held him still. “You’ve been tested, and I’m a virgin.” A bubble of mirth made her smile. “I _was_ a virgin.”

“But a babe … ?”

“My moonblood just finished,” Brienne assured him. “Last weekend. So bed me, Jaime. Please.”

“Oh, wench,” Jaime said, and then he was driving forward into her, slow and hard. One hand coaxed her leg to lift higher, and the angle at which they were joined changed, and –

“Jaime!” He was reaching that place inside her that he stroked with his fingers that made her vision blur but it was _more_, somehow, with him filling her, rubbing against that sweet spot with every thrust, and she was rising again, lifting up on the wave, Jaime panting against her neck as his hips moved faster, moaning her name and she was close, she was on the edge –

“Brienne!” Jaime cried, and there was a sudden heat inside her and she was gone, blazing with fire, pleasure blasting through her from head to foot, feeling him shake against her.

“Oh,” she said at last. “Oh, Jaime.”

“Uh.” He paused, face against her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Brienne ran her hand over his head. “Why didn’t you tell me it was like that?”

Jaime snorted. “Wench, I would have if I’d known.”

“Oh.” She wrapped her arms around him and held him close, feeling a warmth in her chest. _So it wasn’t like that for him with Cersei …_ “Are _you_ alright?”

“I can’t move my legs,” Jaime said, on the ghost of chuckle. “But only in the best way.” He turned his head to press a kiss to her neck. “Wench, I don’t know if it’s Godwin’s training or natural talent, but you have _muscles_.”

Brienne frowned. “Of course I do.”

Jaime raised his head and grinned at her. “Of course you do.” He drew back from her, grabbing up a handful of the sheet to wipe her, and then himself.

“Now I feel like a fool for worrying about it.”

“You can certainly stop worrying about being bad at bedding.” Jaime stretched out beside her again and gathered her close. “And start worrying if I’m ever going to let you out of bed again.”

Brienne snorted gently. “One text from Willas about cat-sized dragons and you’ll be too distracted to notice if I’m even in the room.”

“Impossible.” Jaime kissed her cheek. “After all, the first thing I do when Willas gets an idea is find you to ask you what you think.”

“Is he still working on the script, now Ms Tyrell isn’t directing?”

“I don’t know.” Jaime shrugged. “For the sake of my own sanity, I’m trying not to know anything about what Father’s doing to my film. Although –” He grinned, and ran a hand over his bare scalp. “At least I’ve put a spoke in his wheels for now.”

“Will he be very angry?”

“Furious.”

“And …” Brienne hesitated, but she remembered what he’d been like, that night on Tarth when Tywin had ruined everything, and she had to ask. “Will you be alright? With him being angry?”

Jaime smiled. “Yes, wench, I’ll be alright. I grew up with Tywin Lannister’s temper. If Tyrion and I hadn’t developed an immunity, my first nervous breakdown would have been long before _Kingslayer_.”

“Are you still talking to Maester Luwin?”

“Twice a week, on the phone,” Jaime said promptly. “My father knows all about it, of course. And odds are good that he’s had Roose bug the thing, as well as just track what I do on it, so I can’t exactly tell Luwin the truth of what’s going on.”

Brienne stroked his cheek, feeling the unfamiliarity of bare skin instead of beard. “How’s that going to help?”

“I spend an hour talking about what an ass my father is, and recounting all the horrible things he did or said when Tyrion was little, and Luwin tells me that it’s terrible parenting, as if I hadn’t worked that out for myself.” He grinned. “It’s very satisfying, and goes a long way to keeping me sane.”

“And has Tyrion told you any more about what he’s going to do?”

“No.” He kissed her cheek again. “Wench, do we _have_ to talk about my family?”

“Sorry.” She wrapped her arms more tightly around him. “I just worry about you.”

“Don’t. I’m alright, really, I promise.” He chuckled. “Despite looking like I’ve just escaped from Maegor’s at the moment.”

“You’ve lost weight, though. And you look like you’re not sleeping properly.”

“Wench.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” He pressed his face to her neck. “I just don’t know how to do this. I’m not used to … I mean, I think until this year the only person who’d notice if I ate regular meals was _Peck_, and that was just because he bought my groceries.”

Brienne cupped the back of his head, missing his long golden hair. “I’ll try to stop.” 

“Or I could try to get used to it,” Jaime countered. “You’ve managed to cope with _me_, after all.”

“You don’t take _coping with_,” Brienne assured him. “It was more … I had to get used to the idea that it was alright for me to like how excessive you can be.”

“Mmm.” He was silent a moment. “So you liked Sugar? And the banners? And the armour?”

“Yes,” Brienne admitted softly. “Not at first, to be honest, I was mostly so nervous I couldn’t feel my feet, but when I realised they were cheering for _me_ … it was like a story.”

Jaime chuckled. “I _told_ you stories matter, wench.”

“I just never thought I’d be in one,” Brienne said honestly.

He raised his head and kissed her tenderly. “You _are_ one, Brienne. Imagine what your page in the White Book would be, just for the last year.”

She snorted. “The White Book! You are so ridiculous.”

“Captured with Jaime Lannister by the Brave Companions. Saved his life at risk of her own. Used her heroic powers of kindness and goodness –”

“Jaime!”

He grinned at her. “Shhh. Used her heroic powers of goodness and kindness to rescue him from the pit of self-pity. Used her _other_ heroic powers of strength and courage to save Willa Manderly from attackers. Discovered hitherto unknown truths about dragons. Defeated Arthur Dayne in single combat. That’s quite a lot, for just one year.”

“None of it was like that,” Brienne protested.

“Wench, it was exactly like that.” He ran his fingers through her hair and then gripped it gently, angling her face to kiss her leisurely. “It certainly would have been like that in the third century.”

“You shouldn’t give me any credit for … the self-pity thing,” Brienne said when he let her go. “You weren’t self-pitying, you were going through something awful. And I …” She took a deep breath. “I should have done something like make you see a counsellor, but I … I thought you’d get over liking having me there faster if you did.”

“Oh, wench,” Jaime said gently. He touched her cheek. “I wouldn’t have, you know. I’m constitutionally incapable of not wanting you near me.” He grinned suddenly. “But it’s very good for my ego to hear you say that the incorruptible Brienne Tarth liked being around me so much she put her principles on the back-burner.”

“Never let it be said I didn’t stroke your ego,” Brienne said. She grinned back at him. “Among other things.”

“Why, Brienne Tarth, I am shocked,” Jaime said, widening his eyes so dramatically that Brienne began to laugh. “Shocked, I tell you! Such forward language from the Evenstar’s daughter! What became of your maidenly modesty?”

“I’m not a maiden anymore,” Brienne pointed out.

Jaime threw back his head and laughed like a loon. “No, wench, you are definitely not. Although, just to be sure, we should probably make sure it took.”

So they did.


	120. Whispers III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin wouldn't ... would he?

Leo: _wench, how r you?_

Thapphireth: _missing you. _

Leo: _I miss you 2. Otherwise alright?_

Thapphireth: _A little sore. I ravened Doreah and she said it was normal after the first time and to sit in the bath. So I am._

Leo: _You r whispering me naked in the bath_

Thapphireth: _yes_

Leo: _didn’t thkin I cd haet my father more but there’s always a new mountain to climb_

Leo: _if I was there I wd wash your back. And youre front. _

Thapphireth: _Jaime._

Leo: _pretend im there wench_

Thapphireth: _if you make me drop the phone in the bath …_

Leo: _note to self, get wife waterproof phone_

Leo: _I wont make you bluhs by telling you wat I’m doing right now but the 1st word sounds like working and the 2nd is off_

Thapphireth: _me too_

Thapphireth: _Jaime?_

Leo: _wench if you sy things like that you have 2 expect a shot pause _

Thapphireth: _did you come?_

Leo: _wench I’m shocked speechless_

Thapphireth: _I doubt that. _

Leo: _did you?_

Thapphireth: _yes._

Leo: _ I was thinking about being inside you _

Thapphireth: _so was I_

Leo: _so you want to peg me?_

Thapphireth: _Jaime!_

Leo: _good to know there’s still a line. _

Thapphireth: _you’re impossible_

Leo: _but you love me neway_

Thapphireth: _I love you_

Thapphireth: _There’s no anyway._

Leo: _I no wench I love you 2. _

Leo: _wen all tish is over lets get cloaked proper. Like tyiron wanted. All the guests. Paps everywhere. The blue knight and the gold lion. _

Thapphireth: _alright_

Leo: _really?_

Thapphireth: _Yes really. A thousand people watched me fight Arthur Dayne. I think I can live with 300 seeing me in a dress_

Leo: _wench. _

Thapphireth: _I like it when you say wench like that_

Leo: _you can’t here how I’m saying it_

Thapphireth: _yes I can. _

Leo: _yes you can. Itll be amazing. And then we’ll go to Pentos. And volantis. _

Thapphireth: _And you’ll wear a trench coat and a fedora. _

Leo: _you better believe it._

Thapphireth: _And then what?_

Leo: _then what_ _when?_

Thapphireth: _After volantis? I think we’ve earned it._

Leo: _Lys. And then bear island so you can meet the scariest small child ever in person. _

Thapphireth: _I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids at Meereen. _

Leo: _lys and then Meereen and then brear island. And then some tropical resort. The summer islands. _

Thapphireth: _Are they nice?_

Leo: _If you r rich_

Thapphireth: _I don’t think I’d enjoy that_

Leo: _alright hihgarden. Marge will know the best place to stay. _

Thapphireth: _That would be nice. _

Leo: _We could got to_ _Qohor in there too._

Thapphireth: _why?_

Leo: _ive never been id like to go with you._

Thapphireth: _alright_

Leo: _I’ll get peck on it_

Thapphireth: _will your father be tracking his phone, though?_

Leo: _wench. as if my father thinsk employees matter tha much. But I’ll check with tyrion 1st. _

Thapphireth: _We’ll always have Qohor._

Thapphireth: _Jaime are you there?_

Leo: _sorry wench had 2 go b scolede by my father_

Thapphireth: _Are you alright?_

Leo: _yes fine. _

Leo: _just haet having to wait_

Thapphireth: _Me too. _

Leo: _do you want 2 meet the architect for our house at dremfye?_

Thapphireth: _do I need to?_

Leo: _your dad approves_

Thapphireth: _then no I’m fine. _

Leo: _k cool. You will still need 2 sign off on plan tho. Will get tyrion to make sure you c it. _

Thapphireth: _Sure. Do you think you can get away from your father long enough to come to Tarth? _

Leo: _Not sure but Tyrion’s new resort cd b an excuse. Y?_

Thapphireth: _Do you need a reason?_

Leo: _No. id live on tarth if I cd. Will talk to tyrion and c, k?_

Thapphireth: _Yes. It’s not an emergency or anything. Just an idea._

Leo: _Now I’m curious_

Thapphireth: _but I want to surprise you_

Leo: _4tuneately I like jumpscares._

Leo: _so cat has refused to let father film at winterull. so the long night will happen at astle Cerwyn. _

Thapphireth: _that seems suboptimal_

Leo: _wnech I love you. also yes. _

Thapphireth: _has he lost much of the talent? _

Leo: _odly no. Bolton must have a lot of material on them._

Leo: _gtg_

Leo: _wench r you there? _

Thapphireth: _yes_

Leo: _I wanted 2 tell you b4 you read it. Fther got Victaria Tyrell for the Blue Knight._

Leo: _wench? _

Thapphireth: _that’s a good choice. She was great in Mad Mors Demon Road. She’ll be good. _

Leo: _it shd b you_

Thapphireth: _I don’t mind_

Leo: _I do. A lot. _

Thapphireth: _Is Robb still playing the Young Wolf?_

Leo: _Yes. Marge is still Rose too. Dunno abot Dragon Queen tho _

Thapphireth: _So he’s keeping all that?_

Leo: _The seven only kno what he’ll do with iut tho_

Thapphireth: _I think if Tyrion wanted you to delay production he thinks he can still get Oathkeeper back for you. _

Leo: _he says I can go to Tartht o be celeb guest at Evenfall. Bolton will probly send some1 2 follw me around tho_

Thapphireth: _Come by plane, book all the seats, they’ll have to take the ferry_

Leo: _can the merfolk pirates sink the ferry?_

Thapphireth: _I’ll check with them next time I see them. But don’t worry about Bolton. _

Leo: _wench do you have a plan? You sound like you have a plan_

Thapphireth: _I do. Just tell me when you can get here, and leave the rest to me._

Leo: _not this week I think, father wants me 2 read opp his callbacks for dragon queen_

Leo: _he told me 2 wear a wig so I went to a costume store and got a clown 1_

Thapphireth: _Jaime. Those poor actresses. Having to try to play the Dragon Queen opposite a man in a rainbow wig._

Leo: _hey I’ll leave off the patched face paint, I’m not a monster. _

Leo: _wench._

Thapphireth: _I’m here_

Leo: _I just read the list. _

Thapphireth: _the list of actresses?_

Leo: _yes._

Leo: _this is fucking awful. _

Leo: _I cant believe hed do this_

Leo: _I mean even him, its 2 far_

Thapphireth: _what is it? what’s wrong?_

Leo: _he’s called Aerys Targareyan’s daughter in to audition for the Dragon Queen._


	121. Jaime XLV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An audition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warning for a panic attack.

Jaime ran his hand over his stubbled scalp. _Breathe in and out_, he reminded himself. _Focus on something small and tangible. _

_Do not vomit on Aerys Targaryen’s daughter. _

Small, achievable goals. _Well, they should be achievable_. With his stomach in an uproar and his throat closing in panic, though, they were very much on the _aspirational_ rather than _achievable_ side of the coin.

He breathed in and out. He focused on wondering if the pressure of his little finger against his palm when he made a fist with his right hand was a stronger than it had been yesterday.

He opened the door to the Casterly Rock Studios rehearsal room, and walked through it to face Daenerys Targaryen.

“Ah, Jaime,” Tywin said. “On time for once.”

Jaime ignored him. He couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t have looked away from Aerys Targaryen’s daughter if he’d tried. _Gods be good, she’s barely more than a child._ Oh, he’d _known_ that she’d been born after he father had died, but he hadn’t really understood it until he was facing her, a slip of a girl with her father’s long fair hair dressed in elaborate braids that seemed too heavy for her slender neck to support.

“Mr Lannister,” she said coolly, but her eyes – so dark a blue they were almost violet – said _Kingslayer_.

“Ms Targaryen.” His voice came out half-strangled, but at least it didn’t shake.

“When I was a child, my brother used to tell me bedtime stories.” Her voice was clear and even. _She’s rehearsed this_, Jaime realised. _Many times. _“About our father. About the man who murdered him. About what would happen to that man in a _just_ world.”

“The Gold Cloaks investigated,” Tywin said. “It was self-defence.”

“My father was an old, frail man. And a gentle one. He wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”

Jaime snorted. “Your father, Ms Targaryen –”

“Jaime,” his father said, and there was an entire paragraph in the word. _Remember all those non-disclosure agreements you signed. Remember that if the truth comes out now, so will the fact that you’ve hidden that truth for a more than a decade-and-a-half. _

_Remember that I hold Tommen and Myrcella’s future in the hollow of my hand. _

“Your father was _unwell_,” Jaime tried. “He had some problems with alcohol. And other things.”

“He was over all that,” Daenerys said, implacable. 

“People relapse,” Jaime said gently. _Mother’s mercy, he’s her _father_ after all. The idea of him is all she ever had. _“It doesn’t mean that they’re bad people, or that they don’t want to get better.”

She blinked, as if for the first time he’d said something she understood. “You’re saying he was …” She shook her head. “No. He was clean. For the first time in his life, he was finally better, ready to be a real father. Until you murdered him.”

“No. I’m really very sorry, but no. He wasn’t better, and I didn’t murder him. I killed him, yes, but it wasn’t murder.”

Daenerys studied him for long seconds. “You’re a better actor than most people give you credit for,” she said at last, dismissing his half-truths from her consideration. She turned towards the table. “Shall we read?”

“This is far from a final version of the script,” Tywin said.

Daenerys gave him a small smile. “I may be young, Mr Lannister, but this isn’t my first tourney.”

“Just so you understand.” Tywin handed her several sheets of paper. “There will be a romantic component to your role in the final draft. Your contract will require nudity.”

“As I said, not my first tourney.” Daenerys glanced at the pages. “Who is the Dragon Queen’s love interest?”

“Why, Goldenhand, of course,” Tywin said, as if surprised she hadn’t worked it out for herself.

“Fuck no,” Jaime said, over the top of _What?_ from Daenerys. “Goldenhand and the Blue Knight –”

“As if a hero of the age of ice and fire would find a woman warrior anything but a freakish curiosity,” Tywin sneered. “No. Goldenhand and the Dragon Queen. It will make her death meaningful.”

“I would have thought that dying saving the fucking world from the Cold Gods was fairly fucking meaningful,” Jaime shot back.

“No, she doesn’t die in the battle. Goldenhand kills her, in order to take her throne.”

Jaime’s jaw dropped open and he stared at his father. _Stranger fuck me frozen. _

_The Kingslayer, all over again. Kingslayer, Queenslayer … Oathbreaker, Man Without Honour. _

He was going to be sick, he realised, feeling the cold sweat prickling on his face. _Breathe in and out_, but it was too late for that advice to work, and he wasn’t sure whether the pain in his head or the tightness of his chest was going to kill him first. “Excuse me,” he managed to blurt, and fled.

The nausea overwhelmed him before he’d made it more than a few yards down the hall and he bent double, bringing up the coffee that had been all he’d been able to stomach that morning. _Tarth, I want to be on Tarth_, fuck, he wanted to be anywhere in Westeros or Essos that wasn’t Casterly Rock Studios with his fucking father turning the one good thing he’d hope to achieve with his life into yet another _it’s right in your wheelhouse, Lannister_ cold-rolled bastard of a role and turned the Blue Knight into the freakish curiosity no man would want. _Tarth. I want to be on Tarth. In Selwyn Tarth’s kitchen, with Brienne cooking something delicious on the stove, with the Starks somehow miraculously not hating me, with Brienne’s enormous tribe of Tarths dancing to the old folk tunes …_

“Mr Lannister?” It was Daenerys Targaryen’s voice and Jaime desperately wanted to go away from that, too, _but Seven Hells, she’s barely a woman grown and I _did_ kill her father, even if I didn’t want to, even if I couldn’t help it …_

He managed to straighten, wiping his mouth on his forearm. “Ms Targaryen.”

“Are you contagious, or merely hungover?”

_Hungover,_ he thought to say, an easy lie, one she’d believe too, because he was, after all, the fucking Kingslayer, snapped by the paparazzi falling out of clubs and bars for his entire adult life. But this girl had been lied to her entire life, and he’d had a hand in it, so he shook his head. “Neither. I get … my maester calls them anxiety attacks.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “The idea of shooting a sex scene with me makes you vomit?”

She sounded faintly offended, and Jaime started to laugh. “That’s what you think? That I’m perfectly fine with my character murdering yours, but not with sex?” 

Daenerys shrugged. “She dies anyway, you said, in your version.”

“She dies saving the Young Wolf from the Others! And then he saves _everyone_. So _she_ saves everyone.”

She rolled her eyes slightly. “Because he’s the man, so of course he saves everyone. I’d much rather _my_ character saves everyone and then dies tragically betrayed by the man she thinks she can trust.”

Jaime shook his head. “You won’t, though. _She_ won’t. Have you _seen_ any of my father’s films, or just read the fawning reviews?”

“He’s directed some amazing roles for women –”

“But not heroes,” Jaime shot back. “You heard him in there. He doesn’t think it’s plausible that a man would want to bed a woman who looks like _Victaria Tyrell_ because she was strong and brave. The Dragon Queen will be a great villain, or a heartbreaking victim, but she won’t be a _hero_.”

Daenerys studied him. “You wanted to kill her off in your version, too.”

Jaime shook his head. “Not _wanted_. But I needed the dragon she rode to –”

“The dragon she _rode_?” Her eyes opened very wide. “In your version, she _rode_ on a _dragon_?”

“Fuck, there’s no dragon at all in this one, is there?” Jaime reached up to rake his fingers through his hair and touched bristle instead. “And the Young Wolf?”

“Dies in the second act.”

“Crone’s chilly cunt.” Jaime slumped against the wall and rubbed his hands over his face. “And Rose?”

“Pregnant with his child, Regent in the North.”

Jaime snorted. “Of course.”

“What happened to her in your version?” Daenerys asked.

“Tragically widowed advisor to the Young Wolf’s sister, Queen in the North.”

“Mmm.” Daenerys paused. “Margaery Tyrell would knock that out of the park. Everyone thinks she can only do sexy, but I saw –”

“_The Maester and the Madman_?” Jaime nodded. “She’s the granddaughter of the Queen of Thorns. She’s a Tyrell, for the Smith’s sake. It’d be surprising if she _didn’t_ have talent.”

“And the Blue Knight? And Goldenhand?”

“Kill the rogue dragon together, and live happily ever after,” Jaime said promptly. “But I hadn’t cast Victaria Tyrell. I was going to cast my –” _Careful, Jaime. _“My ex-wife. Brienne Tarth.”

Daenerys nodded. “And I suppose she won’t do it now you’re broken up.”

Jaime snorted. “My father won’t have her. She looks too much like a real knight for his tastes.”

“Well.” She folded her arms. “I want the chance to work with Tywin Lannister. And to do that, I have to pass this audition – with you. So is it at all possible for you to stop throwing up over the idea of stabbing yet another Targaryen, and come back into the rehearsal room?”

“Your father …” Jaime swallowed hard. “It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t mine, either, but it wasn’t his fault. And maybe … if it hadn’t happened the way it happened, maybe he would have gotten the help he needed, and been the father you want him to have been.” Jaime personally doubted that was true – _Aerys was bound for a padded room at Maegor’s, more likely –_ but perhaps the idea would give Daenerys something to hold on to.

Her lip lifted, her nostrils flared. “What do you know about the father I wanted? What do _you_ know about not having a father?”

Jaime shrugged a little. “I know something about how it feels to not have the father you wanted, at least.” He pushed away from the wall and straightened up. “So, _your grace_. Shall we?”


	122. Whispers IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime misses his wench.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter today, but a longer one tomorrow.

Leo: _Wench it was awful_

Leo: _You wdn’t believe ehwta he’s doing with the film_

Leo: _I mean you really wdnt_

Leo: _its not even the same film_

Leo: _the critics will lap itup _

Leo: _Jaime Lnnister murdering another Targaryean. _

Thapphireth: _What?_

Leo: _yes wench goldenhand the unjust murders his way to the throne._

Leo: _kills the Young Wolf. Kills the Dragon Queen. Seduces he 1st. also Rose. Gets her preg so his child will be warden of the nth. _

Thapphireth: _but goldenhand wasn’t anything like that. I mean, no-one knows much about him but what there is bears up the songs. Ebrose even calls him the just, and he’s possibly a contemporary. The Baratheon archives mention him. The first recorded account of the Goldenhand saga dates from the fifth century! _

Leo: _also no dargon. _

Thapphireth: _then what does the blue knight do?_

Leo: _Wench._

Leo:_ Goldenhand kills her. _

Thapphireth: _oh Jaime. I’m so sorry. _

Leo: _and I have to pretend to bed Daenerys Targaryen and then pretend to kill her. _

Leo: _want to bet father blocks the scene exactly like the 1 in Kingslayer? Even sets it in the red keep?_

Thapphireth: _Jaime he wouldn’t._

Leo: _r you kidding? Can’t buy that kind of buzz. _

Thapphireth: _how are you?_

Leo: _not great, wench. Had an attack in front of her. _

Leo: _I can’t tell her the truth of what happened and shes 2 smartto fall 4 the cover story. _

Thapphireth: _oh Jaime. I wish I was there. _

Leo: _I wish you were here 2. Or I was there. _

Thapphireth: _I saw the plans for Dreamfyre point. _

Leo: _r they ne good?_

Thapphireth: _They’re very Jaime. _

Leo: _In a good way?_

Thapphireth: _I never thought I’d live somewhere with its own tourney yard._

Leo: _just a small one. _

Leo: _I mean youll need it if you want to open a school_

Thapphireth: _A school?_

Leo: _yes I was thinking, there’s evenfall hall right there and it won’t get much custom in the winter. You could run a course teaching fighting, like, six weeks or something, and the students could stay at Evenfall Hall. _

Thapphireth: _Jaime._

Leo: _That’s the bad kind of Jaime isn’t it_

Thapphireth: _that’s the I don’t have a glasscandle Jaime._

Leo: _It’s not like I set up a weirnet site for it or ne thing_

Leo: _just had one designed._

Thapphireth: _Jaime! _

Leo: _it’s a really good idea. I bet there’s lots of women who’d like to learn, especially from the Blue Knight. And you could include grappling, I mean, it’s important to tourney fighting but it would also mean they cd defend themselves. _

Leo: _wench? _

Thapphireth: _Victaria Tyrell is the Blue Knight now. _

Leo: _no never_

Leo: _wench never_

Leo: _wench? _

Thapphireth: _Jaime, it’s alright, I don’t midn. It was a lovely story, but it was just a story. _

Leo: _wench. its alright 2 mind. You can tlel me if you mind. And I can tell you mind. _

Thapphireth: _I shouldn’t. I didn’t want to do it. You talked me into it. _

Leo: _what can I do?_

Thapphireth: _find a way to get away to Tarth_

Leo: _next week. I swaer. _

Thapphireth: _only if your father won’t suspect_

Leo: _he’s finished casting and will be terrorising willas and the set designers for at least a sennight and probably a fortnight. _

Thapphireth: _just tell me what day. _

Leo: _mothersday _

Leo: _will let you no when I have flight time. Or peck will. _

Thapphireth: _I’ll be waiting. _


	123. Jaime XLVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime on Tarth. NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad about how short today's chapter was, so here's another one! NSFW! And please do give both chapters some comment love on your way through

Jaime could see Brienne, standing tall beside her blue car, as soon as the seaplane banked into its final approach. The year turning towards winter as it was, she was wearing a coat – _the one Margaery made her buy_ – with her arms firmly folded against the wind that ruffled her hair. The sun was almost setting but the crimson blaze of the setting sun lit her perfectly.

Jaime pressed his hand against the window and gazed at her as the plane brought him closer, and closer still, and then the pontoons touched the water and they were taxiing to the dock. He unbuckled his safety belt as soon as the first rope looped around the piling, was out the door a heartbeat after the second was made fast. He barely paused to seize his bag from the co-pilot and then –

Brienne met him halfway down the dock and wrapped her arms around him. “Jaime.”

“Hello, wench,” he said, finding his voice unsteady. He put his free arm around her waist, kissed her, and put his head down on her shoulder before she could see the quiver of his lip.

“Alright,” she said softly. “It’s alright, Jaime. I’ve got you.”

And she _did_ have him, all her tall strong gentleness enfolding him, standing patient on the seaplane dock in the keen wind until he could lift his head from her shoulder and blink his vision clear. “How did you go with the merfolk, wench?”

Brienne smiled. “They weren’t willing to sink a whole ferry to deal with a couple of Bolton employees. I had to resort to plan B.”

“Which is?”

“Which is every Tarth on Tarth on alert, and all their friends and neighbours as well. Eager local guides will take them to my childhood home at Evenfall.”

“Wench. That’s –”

“Via Parchment point,” Brienne said. “Where their cars will get bogged. It will take them until the middle of the night to either wait for a tow or walk back to Morne. And then, if they still have an appetite for adventure on Tarth, they’ll be directed to my father in Aemon’s Falls, where he will enthusiastically offer to baptise them into the church of the Drowned God.”

“But they know I’m supposed to be at Evenfall Hall,” Jaime pointed out.

“Which won’t make any difference if they can’t get to Evenfall Hall,” Brienne countered. “Unfortunately the direct route from Morne has been closed for repairs, on the orders of the Evenstar. And those backroads, well. They can be confusing, even to locals.” 

Jaime smiled. “So the whole island of Tarth is on your side?”

“On our side,” Brienne corrected. She kissed his lips, and then his cheek, and made a face. “I preferred the beard.”

“I’m working on it.” Jaime drew back, and rubbed his chin with his hand. “You’re right, though. It’s at that awkward age, like a thirteen-year-old boy.”

“Were you awkward, at thirteen?” She smiled at him. “I find it hard to imagine.”

“At fourteen and fifteen. I sprouted two feet in as many years. It took drama class and a movement coach and a dance teacher to get used to being completely the wrong size.” He leaned up to kiss her. “I bet you know what that’s like. I bet you had a growth spurt to rival mine.”

Brienne nodded. “I think that’s when I got clumsy. At least, I don’t remember being so cack-handed when I was a kid.” 

Jaime kissed her again. “You’re not at all clumsy, you know.”

“I am,” she protested. “Don’t mock me, Jaime.”

He shook his head. “I’m not. I’ve seen you fight, remember? You think you’re clumsy, and it makes you self-conscious, and then you _make_ yourself clumsy by worrying that you are. But I’ve seen you fight, and when you’re not thinking about being clumsy, you’re fucking perfection.” 

“Jaime, I –”

“Beat Arthur Dayne,” he reminded her. “So. _Are_ we going to Evenfall?”

Brienne smiled. “It’s a surprise,” she said. She took his hand. “Come on. I promise you’ll like it.”

The sun was dipping beyond Tarth’s hills as they reached the car. Jaime surrendered his bag to Brienne and let her put him in the passenger seat. By the time they reached the top of the hill, the SUV’s headlights had turned themselves on, and Jaime divided his attention between the fading twilight sight of Tarth out the window and Brienne’s calm profile as she steered the car along the narrow road. It was like the night they’d met, Brienne piloting them with unshakable competence over Northern winter roads, Jaime the hapless passenger with no idea where they were bound.

And utterly unlike. _It hasn’t even been a year. _Not even a full year, and yet his life had changed in ways he couldn’t possibly have imagined. _Or maybe I could have imagined, once. _Before _Kingslayer_. But before _Kingslayer_ he would have imagined himself and Cersei in a car at night, quiet and comfortable together. _And I would have been driving. And she would have been complaining about someone or something. _

_Most probably about my driving. _

He felt it again like a punch in the gut, no matter how many times he’d faced it before. _She was really fucking bad for me. I was really fucking bad for her. _

“Jaime?” Brienne said, not looking away from the road, _because of course she wouldn’t look away from the road, driving at night. _

“Sorry, wench.” He pulled himself up a little in the seat. “I’m …”

She took one hand off the wheel long enough to reach over and grasp his. “I know. I mean, I can’t understand, but I can imagine. You’re back in the Westerlands, back at Casterly Rock Studios.”

Jaime squeezed her fingers and let her go to take the wheel again. “I don’t want to be that boy again. But I can’t hate him. I can’t not understand him.”

“I know,” Brienne said again. “I don’t want to be sixteen and standing by the wall at the school dance, the only girl in a pantsuit because I looked like a sow in silk in a dress. But I don’t hate her, and I understand her.”

“How do you fix it, when it happens?”

Brienne’s mouth turned up at the corner. “I don’t know if I’d say I have a foolproof solution. But my maester says to talk to her the way I would, now, if she was someone else as well as me. So when I feel like that again, I say, hey, Brienne, the prettiest man in the Seven Kingdoms spends an awful lot of time trying to get your clothes off …”

Jaime laughed. “So what do I tell that young idiot?”

She was silent a moment. “Tell him he’s not an idiot,” she said at last. “Tell him he’s a good man, and he’ll grow into a good man. Tell him it’s not wrong to love someone. Tell him it’s not his fault if that someone has problems they don’t want to fix.” She paused. “Tell him that he was just a kid.”

It was close enough to what Luwin had delicately hinted to make Jaime’s gorge rise. He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t what I feel for you. It was … it was different.”

“There’s different kinds of love,” Brienne said, and although her voice was calm her hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “There’s _Volantis_ love and _When Duncan Met Rohanne_ love and _The Hunchback Of The Sept of Baelor_ love.” She paused. “And there’s _Last Tango In Pentos_ love, too. And _Blue Maidensday_ love, as well.”

“Wench.” He didn’t want to distract her from the road, so he didn’t reach out and touch her as he longed to. “I don’t know if all those count.”

“I don’t know if they don’t,” Brienne countered. “What I felt for Renly wasn’t a skerrick of what I feel for you. But in a romcom, it would have been real. Unrequited, of course, because in a romcom I’d be the plain best friend. But real.”

Jaime turned to look at her. “And was it real?”

Brienne smiled a little. “I thought it was. Because I hadn’t met you.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest at that, and his eyes prickled. “Wench.”

“You can feel different things for different people,” Brienne said carefully. “It doesn’t mean that any of them aren’t true.”

“I keep thinking that I only _thought_ I loved her,” Jaime blurted. “But being back there …”

Brienne brought the car to a gentle halt in the middle of a windswept hill. “I thought it might be like that.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Jaime said desperately. “It doesn’t mean anything about how I feel about you. Brienne.”

She put the parking brake on, took the keys from the ignition, and turned to face him. “I know that, Jaime.”

“I just don’t want you to think –”

Brienne unsnapped her seatbelt, leaned over, and took his face in her hands. “Jaime. You had armour made for me, you arranged for a horse, you shaved off your beautiful hair so you could watch me fight. You’re here, with _me_, on Tarth. That’s what I think. Things happened before we met, and alright, they happened. I wish they hadn’t, because I wish nothing bad had ever happened to you. But things happened to me that I wish hadn’t happened, too, and they might make a difference to how I feel about myself but they don’t make a difference to how I feel about _you_.” She ran her hand over the bristles of his hair. “And I’ll continue to believe they don’t make a difference to how _you_ feel about me, until you prove me wrong.”

“Never,” he promised.

She smiled. “I know. Now, do you want to see your surprise? It’s just up the hill, but it’ll be prettier if we walk the last little way.”

They got out of the car. Brienne took his bag from the boot and tucked her free hand through his elbow. Although the sky had faded to the last hint of twilight, Jaime could make out the outlines of the trees against the stars, the hills to their left, a tumble of rocks left by some long-past avalanche … vaguely familiar. “Is this Dreamfyre Point?”

“It is.” Brienne gave him a smug smile. “Come see our house.”

_Already?_ And then she led him around the last clump of trees and Jaime realised that no, of course not _already_, the plans had only been finalized a week ago. The same plans, in fact, that he could see in front of him now, except full-sized and marked out against the dark night-time grass with strings of the same tiny lanterns that had decorated Selwyn’s yard for Last Dark. At the far end of the pattern, he could see a large white bell tent, its skirts reflecting the yellow and blue and rose of the lanterns. “Wench.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Shall I carry you over the threshold, or do you want to carry me?”

Jaime grinned at her. “If I say _the first_, you’re going to throw me over your shoulder like a spoil of war, aren’t you?”

Brienne smiled. “Well, I will _now_.”

“Mmhmmm. Where’s the front door?” She pointed, and Jaime bent to wrap his arms around her thighs and hoist her up, carrying her the few steps to the break in the lanterns she’d indicated and through it before letting her down. “Give me the grand tour, wench.”

Brienne took his hand and led him through the strings of lights, pointing out where the kitchen would be, the dining room, the study. “And this will be the living room,” she said, coming to a stop before the tent. “The bedroom will be above it, but I couldn’t work out how to make that happen.”

“Well, then, it’s completely ruined,” Jaime said. He wrapped his arms around her. “Wench. How long did this take you?”

“Most of the day,” she admitted. “The tent is from Starpike, I bought a couple of them after the … concert. Mainly to set up in Dad’s yard for overflow house guests.” She put his bag down and opened the tent flaps, tying them back neatly, revealing an interior lit in a welcoming golden glow.

Jaime ducked inside and found himself in a luxurious interior that rivalled Thunderfist Tours. There was a table and chairs, a bed with an actual frame spread with blankets in rich blue and gold, a curtained area that led, on investigation, to a shower and a sink and a Portaprivy.

Brienne followed him inside and set his bag on the bed. “Are you hungry?”

“A little. Do you want to drive in to Morne, or –”

“Or,” Brienne said, smiling, and pointed to a portable cooler in the corner. “Nothing hot, I’m afraid, I ran out of time to get across to Storm’s End for a new barbeque. But I have oysters and shrimp, and Dad cold-smoked a salmon, and Abelar brought over some of his salad. And I made crab cakes, and sauces. Oh, and there’s wine. Or beer, if you’d rather.”

Jaime caught her hand, tugged her to him and kissed her soundly. “You’ll spoil me.”

Brienne’s lips curved into a smile against his. “Good. You deserve some spoiling.”

They ate with the table drawn over to give them a view of the colourful lanterns, and the dark sea beyond. By silent, mutual agreement, neither mentioned Tywin, or _Oathkeeper_, or the fact that Jaime would have to leave the next day for neither-of-them-knew _how_ long. Instead, they talked about the house: about whether it was worth it to have a proper barbeque installed (_of course, wench, even if we only use it for Last Dark parties it will be worth it_); whether the armoury needed to be as large as it was (_Jaime, your armour, my armour, two sets if I fight both classes, and what about this lunatic idea of me teaching students? It’s probably not large _enough_, actually_); what colour to paint the bedroom _(cream, the same as your Tarth moon, with yellow and rose and blue for the trim_). Brienne had firm ideas about storm shutters, and Jaime was happy to defer to a child of what was, after all, the _Storm_lands on that. _He_ had firm ideas on the kind of rainwater tanks that would be installed, given they’d be looking at them every time they were on that side of the house, and to the seven hells with the expense. _ Jaime,_ Brienne sighed, but she was smiling.

And when she said his name like that and smiled like that there was really nothing for him to do but seize her hand and tow her to the bed.

“Let’s make our new home ours, wench.”

Brienne tugged her hand free. “I’ll just close the tent –”

Jaime caught her again. “No. I want to see you against the stars and the sea and the plan of our home.”

“Anyone else could see me too!”

He grinned at her. “Who would be up here? There’s not a house in sight.”

“Someone might be walking.”

“In the dark? And they’d be trespassing.”

“Jaime …”

“We’ll put out the lights,” Jaime said. “No-one will be able to see in.” _Hear, on the other hand_ … but he didn’t mention that, only found the control for the lights and dimmed them to the merest glow. “There. Now take off your clothes and come here.”

“Jaime,” Brienne said again, but her hands moved to the laces of her blouse.

He unbuttoned his own shirt so quickly two buttons sprang loose and vanished into the shadowed corners and then helped Brienne with hers. She was glorious in the dim light, her pale skin stippled with reflections from the lanterns, her eyes a deeper, softer blue than in daylight. He bent to take one pink nipple in his mouth, exulting in the way she moaned and leaned into him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. _Jaime_, she murmured, in the tone that he could always feel from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, but most particularly in his balls. _Jaime …_

“Wench,” he said after a moment, not even trying to hide the huskiness and the hunger in his voice. “I didn’t want to presume, but …” He fished in the pocket of his jeans and produced a foil square.

Brienne looked down at him, smiling. “I didn’t want to presume, either, but …” She reached into her own pocket and pulled out a similar foil packet.

Jaime chuckled. “Wench, I’m impressed. You went into an apothecary and bought condoms?”

She blushed a little, visible even in the low light. “I did.”

He kissed her. “I’ve corrupted you.”

“Not possible,” Brienne whispered. 

“Come here.” He drew her back towards the bed. “Come here, come here.”

Brienne went with him, unfastening his jeans with each step. They fell on the bed together, yanking at each other’s clothes, slowed by the need to kiss and touch and press against each other, to feel skin against skin. “Leave it,” Brienne panted with her jeans and smallclothes still around one ankle. “Jaime, Jaime, please, please!”

She was already slippery and swollen as a ripe peach when he slid his fingers between her legs, but he took his time, stroking her until she was arching against his hand, whimpering with need. She cried out in protest when he took his hand away. “Condom,” he gasped, ripping the packet open.

“I should go on moonpills,” Brienne said.

“Talk about it later.” Jaime finished rolling the sheathe down, fit himself to her and plunged home with one thrust.

“Jaime!” She clenched around him, hard enough to make him gasp. _Arrax, Balerion, Caraxes, Dreamfyre _… _Seven Hells, does she even know what she’s doing? _ “Jaime, Jaime, Jaime ...” She pulsed around him with every repetition of his name, legs wrapped around him and hands clutching his arms. Jaime tried to think of something, _anything_, the least bit unerotic but it was an impossible task with Brienne moaning his name, head thrown back, her fair hair tumbled on the pillow as she thrust up against him more and more urgently.

“Brienne,” he panted. His next word would have been _sorry_ but she screamed his name and shuddered from head to foot, spasming around him, and he let go, release and relief and blinding pleasure scorching down his spine and leaving him limp and boneless against her.

“Oh, Jaime,” Brienne murmured after a while, and Jaime realised he was sprawled on top of her.

He began to raise his weight from her. “Sorry.”

Brienne wrapped her arms around him and held him where he was. “Don’t be. I’m strong enough.”

“I know.” He shifted to the side anyway, so he could curl against her with his face against her neck. On the edge of sleep, he managed to say, “I’m glad I wasn’t presuming.”

She chuckled, a sound he felt as much as heard. “I’m glad _I_ wasn’t. And I think I should start taking moonpills. Then we wouldn’t need to worry. And I … I liked it better.”

Jaime fought back towards wakefulness. “Only if they agree with you.” 

He could hear the smile in her voice. “You’re falling asleep.” She ran her hand over his head.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Brienne whispered. She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Just rest, Jaime. You’re safe here. You’re safe on Tarth. Just rest.”

So he did.


	124. Whispers V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime hates the North.

Leo: _It’s very cold up here. _

Thapphireth: _Where?_

Leo: _The North. I hate the fucking North._

Leo: _except its were I met you so not really. _

Thapphireth: _what are you doing in the North?_

Leo: _Father. We’re doing on location rehearsals for the externals at cerwuen. I think he thinks this will b his masterpiece_

Leo: _ofc he got out of the car, got one breath of the ice crystals that pass for air up here, and immediately remembered urgent business elsewhere _

Leo: _then marge decided she wasn’t going to freeze her teats off waiting for him_

Leo: _so the rest of us are cooling our heels._

Leo: _our frozen heels. _

Thapphireth: _It’s not that cold up there yet surely?_

Leo: _there’s nsow. _

Thapphireth: _There’s snow in the north 9 months of the year._

Leo: _I haet the fucking north. _

Thapphireth: _Apart from hating the North, how are you?_

Leo: _my trailer wd make a doghouse look spacious. Tomorrow I have to pretend to kiss Aerys Targareyan’s daughter. I miss you so much it hirts _

Thapphireth: _I’m sorry Jaime. _

Leo: _wench not yr fault_

Thapphireth: _ I know I’m just sorry you’re miserable_

Leo: _tell me something cheerful_

Thapphireth: _Tommen and Myrcella visited us._

Leo: _on Tarth?_

Thapphireth: _yes. Stannis and Selyse came too, with Shireen. Dad took them out on his boat._

Leo: _poor them._

Thapphireth: _Dad caught a five foot halibut and had to throw it back because Tommen felt sorry for it. So poor us. _

Leo: _did they have a good time?_

Thapphireth: _I think so_. _I don’t really know how to talk to Myrcella. I don’t understand the things she likes and she doesn’t like the things I understand._

Thapphireth: _She was polite though. And pretended to be having a good time. _

Leo: _And tommen?_

Thapphireth: _well about that._

Thapphireth: _have a look at blueknight@evenstar in Ravengram_

Leo: _wench you have a ravengramm account_

Leo: _?_

Thapphireth: _not really. Just one picture. _

Leo: _wench. _

Leo: _I’d_ _say something about the cat but I’m 2 distracted by the legs its lying on_

Thapphireth: _he’s a kitten _

Leo: _either way. I take it he’s 1 of tommens?_

Thapphireth: _yes. He brought him as a gift and I couldn’t say no. Not looking at his face._

Leo: _you r very soft hearted. _

Thapphireth: _I know it’s my weakness_

Leo: _it’s your superpower._

Leo: _have you named him?_

Thapphireth: _Yes. Leo._

Leo: _wench I don’t know if I’m flttered or isulnted. _

Thapphireth: _well his favourite sleeping position is on his back with his legs open showing me his bits _

Leo: _I resemble that remark_

Leo: _he’s remarkably handsome I think I’m flattered_

Thapphireth: _you don’t mind?_

Leo: _wench of course not. _

Thapphireth: _I know I should have asked you_

Leo: _wench I bought a horse. You’d have to acquire … idk 600 kittnes? Not sure of the weight ratio. B4 we were even. _

Leo: _and he’s ver hdansome _

Leo: _I’m jealous tho he’s in my favoutire place_

Thapphireth: _I’ll teach him to sleep on the floor_

Leo: _wench he’s a cat. The entire body of popular culture wisom states he’s untrainable _

Thapphireth: _I don’t believe that_

Leo: _on your head be it. _

Thapphireth: _He’s purring now. Almost as prettily as you do._

Leo: _wench. don’t b cruel. I can’t compete with an adorable ginger kitten _

Thapphireth: _he can’t compete with you and you know it_

Leo: _I do but the reassuramnce is good 4 my ego. _

Thapphireth: _never let it be said I didn’t take care of your ego_

Leo: _you take care of all the parts of me wench_

Thapphireth: _akjuduep fjaspie’_

Leo: _Wench_

Leo: _?_

Thapphireth: _So it turns out_

Thapphireth: _cat’s paws also register on a phone screen_

Leo: _so that was my first Whisper from little leo?_

Leo: _I’m so proud_

Leo: _they grow up so fast_

Thapphireth: _Jaime._

Leo: _wench don’t say my name like that when I’m not in private_

Thapphireth: _where are you?_

Leo: _dinner with the Starks. _

Thapphireth: _Jaime you should not be on your phone to me when you’re having dinner with people!_

Leo: _relax wench I told them about Whipser and that I couldn’t even raven you around other people and they’re just igorign me and talking amongst themselsev. _

Leo: _can I show them the picture of little leo?_

Thapphireth: _yes_

Leo: _they’e dog people. _

Leo: _I was almost starting to like them too_

Thapphireth: _Jaime don’t be ridiculous. _

Leo: _well k I still like them. They pretended pretty well. But how can you not like a face like that?_

Thapphireth: _And hence we don’t really need a DNA test to know if you’re related to Tommen _

Thapphireth: _Sorry that was flippant and insensitive _

Thapphireth: _Jaime? I’m sorry. _

Leo: _no wench. _

Leo: _sorry just_

Leo: _tommen is _

Leo: _ fuck ench I’m not that good r that kind_

Thapphireth: _Jaime Lannister you are absolutely that good and that kind _

Thapphireth: _don’t you say mean things about my friend_

Leo: _yes wench_

Thapphireth: _ I wish I was there. Or you were here. _

Leo: _me too_

Leo: _hey you’re going to get a raven from Cat in a bit_

Leo: _inviting you to winterfell_

Thapphireth: _ Jaime you didn’t invite me to stay at someone else’s home, did you?_

Leo: _wench it’s a castle I think they have room._

Thapphireth: _ Jaime …_

Leo: _you’ll come though_

Thapphireth: _ of course I will. _

Leo: _several times if I have anything to say about it_

Thapphireth: _ Jaime! do not type such things in front of Catelyn Stark! _


	125. Ravens XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravens on Tyrion's phone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warning for mention of past miscarriage, past sexual harassment, past sexual abuse.

10:32 Catelyn Tully-Stark: _She’s willing to talk. On the record. _

10:35 Small Lion: _on film?_

10:42 Catelyn Tully-Stark: _She says yes. But I don’t know. She’s very fragile._

10:55 Small Lion: _I understand_

11:15 Catelyn Tully-Stark: _I don’t think you do. I understand the reasons, and I agree in principle, but this could really hurt her. _

11:22 Small Lion: _what if I could have a maester there, one with silver links in emotional and mental problems? A woman? And the interviewer was someone good, like Ulwyck Uller. Or a woman too. _

11:28 Catelyn Tully-Stark: _ The only people she really trusts now are her brothers, I think. _

11:30 Small Lion: _they can b there 2. Can call a halt any time. _

11:35 Catelyn Tully-Stark: _Now I’ve seen her I’m less certain it’s a good idea. _

11:39 Small Lion: _so the rumours are true?_

11:42 Catelyn Tully-Stark: _I think there were things that didn’t make it into the movie, as well. It’s been years, but she’s still so fragile._

11:43 Catelyn Tully-Stark: _you may not use this in any way unless she tells you herself, but she miscarried._

11:55 Small Lion: _I’m sorry to hear that. _

11:56 Small Lion: _do you think she might find telling the truth would help? That perhaps she’s still fragile because he got away with it?_

12:05 Catelyn Tully-Stark: _I think that’s the kind of thing people say because they watch too many movies. I think she’s still fragile because what happened was traumatic and she lost a child and there are things you don’t get over just because making a speech about it makes the audience cheer._

12:07 Small Lion: _Ms Stark, I understand how difficult it would be for her. But she said she was willing. Shouldn’t she be the 1 to decide? _

12:09 Catelyn Tully-Stark: _yes. Alright. But I’ll give her your details to raven, not vice-versa._

12:15 Small Lion: _Fair. _

12:18 Small Lion: _And Ellyn Tarbeck? Any news on her?_

* * *

14:22 Unknown number: _Mr Tyrion Lannister? Catelyn gave me your number_

14:35 Small Lion: _Yes. I’m Tyrion. _

15:41 Unknown number: _This is Elia. _

15:45 Small Lion: _I’m very glad to hear from you. _

15:48 Small Lion: _Catelyn told me you’ve been unwell. I’m sure your brothers take care of everything you need, but please let me know if there’s anything beyond their resources. _

16:29 E M: _I didn’t expect Tywin’s son to offer that._

16:35 Small Lion: _I’m not what most people expect from Tywin Lannister’s son, him included. _

16:42 Small Lion: _I’m very grateful you’re willing to help me._

17:17 E M: _I want to try. I don’t know if I can. I might not be able to._

17:24 Small Lion: _I understand. I’m very grateful that you’re willing to try. We can do everything you need or want to make you comfortable. My aunt is a maester, she’s very good, I can arrange to have her there, or you can have your own, your brothers if you want, any interviewer you choose. _

18:52 E M: _It has to be here. _

18:56 Small Lion: _of course._

* * *

09:18 Unknown number: _Catelyn Stark gave me your number. This is Ellyn Reyne. I used to be Ellyn Tarbeck. _

10:38 Small Lion: _It’s good to hear from you. Sorry for the delay, I was in a meeting. _

10:39 E R: _Cat said you’re going to destroy your father. She said I could trust you._

10:41 Small Lion: _Both those things are true_

10:42 Small Lion: _I’ve heard some rumours that make me think you could help, if they’re true, and if you were willing to go on the record._

10:42: E R: _They are, and I can and I will_

10:43 E R: _Tell me where and when. _

* * *

22:19 Unknown number: _Catelyn Stark said I should talk to you._

22:23 Small Lion: _if she thinks so, I suspect she’s right._

22:25 Unknown number: _about Tywin Lannister_

22:26 Small Lion: _did he harm you, too?_

22:28 Unknown number: _not what people called harm at the tmie. _

22:29 Small Lion: _but now? _

22:31 Unknown number: _he didn’t touch me or anything_

22:32 Small Lion: _what did he do?_

22:35 Unknown number: _I was the body double for Walk of Smahe. He said I cdnt act and the audience wd know even from the back. So he said I had to b authentic. _

22:36 Unknown number: _its real what you see on the film. It was all real. _

22:28 Unknown number: _I shower in a swimsuit ever since_

22:32 Small Lion: _I’m so terribly sorry._

22:34 Small Lion: _I think you can help me make him pay, if you’re willing to go on the record. _

22:36 B D: _I don’t know. right now I’d say yes but I’ve had a lot to drink._

22:38 Small Lion: _do you have someone to talk to about it? a friend, a maester?_

22:42 B D: _I don’t have friends. When I meet sumone I know they’ve seen it. even if they haven’t. _

22:45 Small Lion: _listen, I’m going to raven you a number. It’s my aunt, she’s a maester, she helps people who have things like that to deal with. Her name is Genna and she’s very, very nice, and don’t worry about her charging you, I’ll take care of it. _

22:48 B D: _why?_

22:52 Small Lion: _Bec I think she could help you_

22:55 B D: _no_ _y wd you help me_

22:57 Small Lion: _Because Tywin Lannister hurt me, and he’s hurting someone I love very much. If I raven you Genna’s number, will you call her? _

23:10 B D: _yes. _

* * *

05:10 Spider: _I have it. _

05:15 Small Lion: _is it what we thought?_

05:17 Spider: _better. So much better. _

05:18 Small Lion: _I’ll b in the office in 15_

05:19 Spider: _I’m outside your front door. _

* * *

07:22 Small Lion: _Hello. This is Tyrion Lannister. I hope you don’t mind me contacting you._

08:05 Dragon Queen: _What do you want?_

08:11 Small Lion: _I believe we may be of use to one another. _

08:15 Dragon Queen: _I have all the Lannisters in my life that I could possibly want. _

08:18 Small Lion: _not like me. _

08:21 Dragon Queen: _What do you want? A straight answer, or I’ll block your ravens. _

08:26 Small Lion: _I want you to hire me to represent you in your wrongful death suit against my father for the death of your father. _

08:28 Dragon Queen: _your brother murdered my father. _

08:29 Small Lion: _I have something to show you that might change your mind on that subject. _

08:31 Dragon Queen: _send it to me, then. _

08:32 Small Lion: _Not secure. You have to come to King’s Landing. _

08:34 Dragon Queen: _your offer of service grows less attractive by the moment. _

08:36 Small Lion: _believe me, you want to see this. _

08:38 Dragon Queen: _and why should I trust you? _

08:42 Small Lion: _You don’t need to trust me. You just need to come to KL and watch a piece of film. _

08:52 Small Lion: _showing who really murdered your father._

11:31 Dragon Queen: _raven me the address. _


	126. Jaime XLVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime still hates the north, but it's growing on him.

Jaime pressed his thumb to his phone until the _Whisper_ icon appeared, and tapped it. _Wench I think I enjoyed my last trip to catle Cerwyn more than this one and that’s saying sumthing. _

“Jaime!”

Jaime shoved his phone into his pocket and looked up. Davos Seaworth was crunching through the snow towards him. “Davos. What did you do, to be working on a film in the Land of Almost Always Winter two years in a row?”

“Something terrible, lad, no doubt.” Davos floundered through the last drift to reach Jaime. “But then, that’s what I thought on the night shoots on _Blackwater Bay_. All I can hope is that I enjoyed it at the time. How’s your trailer?”

Jaime snorted, thinking of the narrow accommodation with its pull-down bed. “I’ve slept in worse. And better. At least the heating works.”

“I’ve been trying to scare up an assistant for you but I’ve hit a hitch. I planned to have the same lass covering you and Ms Targaryen, but she kicked up a fuss.”

_Of course she did._ “We have some unpleasant family history in common,” Jaime said.

Davos shot him a puzzled glance, and then his eyes widened. “Of course. Stranger fuck me frozen, lad, I’m sorry, I didn’t put two and two together. That’s going to make the sex scene awkward, then.”

Jaime snorted. “Even more awkward than the fact that she’s barely legal? Possibly. Don’t worry about it, man.” He clapped Davos on the shoulder. “I can sort out my own catering orders and pick up my own sides. It’s just rehearsals.”

Davos looked relieved. “If you could, just for a few days until I get someone up here, that would be much appreciated.”

“Get someone local,” Jaime suggested. “The place can’t be overflowing with casual jobs out-of-season. Stick a notice up in the bar in Wintertown. There’s bound to be some bright young lad or lass still saving for a ticket to somewhere they can feel their feet for more than two months of the year.” 

“I might just do that.” Davos unzipped his padded coat just enough to take out a sheaf of papers. “Here’s your calls for tomorrow, anyway. And I told catering you’d have venison stew for lunch and boar ribs for dinner.”

“I’ll be playing Goldenhand the Fat, then,” Jaime said, grinning. “Thanks.”

He went back to his trailer and read through what he had to do tomorrow. _No fight scenes. _That was a pity. _Scene in the Godswood when I betray and murder the Young Wolf. And then seduce the Dragon Queen five feet from his body. _He tried not to think about it, except as information. _But that won’t be possible tomorrow. _

_Tomorrow, I’ll have to do it._

Suddenly, the trailer wasn’t just small, it was claustrophobically clamped. Jaime flung the pages aside and shrugged into his coat. _The problem isn’t that it’s a bad role,_ he thought as he strode out into the cold. _I mean, I was willing to play the villain in Olenna’s version, and this is a much meatier part. The lead. _At another time, with some other director, with a different career behind him, Jaime would have leapt at the chance to play the part. _Only not Goldenhand. Call him Lion, call him Usurper, call him fucking _anything_ but Goldenhand._

“Davos!” he called. “I’m going to get a pint at Wintertown. I’ll put that notice up for you.”

“Thanks, lad,” Davos called back, and Jaime got into his car.

It was, at least, too early in the winter for him to need to worry about black ice on the road, but he drove carefully and under the speed limit all the same, imagining Brienne’s expression if he had to confess to having put his car in a ditch. At Wintertown, he begged paper and pen from the barmaid and carefully lettered out a notice for a job offer, _Production assistant on film excellent organisation skills a must raven davos seaworth with your resume._

“If you could put that up somewhere people will see it …” He gave the barmaid his best charming smile as he handed it back.

She read it. “What’s a production assistant do, then?”

“Makes sure the talent gets their meals and that they know where they’re supposed to be.” Jaime shrugged. “Occasionally sort out scheduling meetings, like with wardrobe or the production manager. When none of that’s needed, helping out with different things, like … tagging costumes for wardrobe. Running errands for other departments.”

“Pay well?”

“I don’t know,” Jaime admitted. “Not bad I guess? And it’s just for a month or so, unless we go into full production before the end of the year. But if you know someone who would be good at all that who isn’t working at the moment …”

She nodded. “I do, actually. I’ll put your notice up, and I’ll raven her about it, too.” 

“Thanks.” He gave her another charming smile. “It’s mostly to be an assistant for me, and I’m not –”

“Jaime!” Sansa Stark said behind him.

Jaime turned. Sansa was smiling, and as far as he could tell it was a genuine smile, as if she was actually pleased to see him. “Hello.”

“Castle Cerwyn’s café must be worse that everyone says, for you to drive in here for an ale and pie.”

He shook his head. “The café is fine, I won’t slander it. I just wanted to get out, and –” He gestured at the notice the barmaid was pinning up. “Doing a favour for a friend.”

Sansa leaned over to look at the notice. “Excellent organisation skills … I know someone who might suit.”

“Jeyne?” the barmaid said, and Sansa nodded. “I was going to call her.”

“If she comes with the Sansa Stark endorsement, I’ll put a word in with Davos for her,” Jaime offered.

She smiled again, and _Stranger fuck me frozen, that’s definitely a real smile. _Almost as if she liked him, as if a Stark _could_ … But then, he came with Brienne’s stamp of approval these days, didn’t he? “Are you doing anything for dinner?”

He blinked at her. “What?” _Oh, very suave, Jaime. Very sophisticated. _

Sansa’s smile widened, and softened at the same time. “Jon’s coming for dinner tonight. If you don’t have plans, you should come as well.”

“I think I’ve imposed on your family’s hospitality enough already,” Jaime pointed out.

She gave a small, ladylike snort. “If you’re talking about Brienne coming to visit, it’s no imposition. We all like her, and Arya is far gone in hero-worship, and Gendry is delighted to have the chance to check the fit of her new armour. _We_ used _you_ to get her here, not the other way round.” She tucked her hand through his elbow. “So do come to dinner, if you can. My mother says you need feeding up.” 

Which was how Jaime found himself parking his car outside Winterfell’s gates for the second time in a fortnight.

“Mum, Mum, he’s here!” the youngest boy – _Dickon? Rickon? Yes, Rickon – _called, waving at Jaime.

Jaime waved back and got out of the car. He shivered as theatrically as he could as he zipped up his coat, making the boy laugh. “Your sister promised me warmth and dinner.”

“This way!” Rickon danced over to him and seized his hand. “Mum made venison pie yesterday and she’s had a whole baby pig on the spit all afternoon!”

Jaime felt his mouth begin to water. “Sounds amazing. I wish I could cook like that.”

“Well, Gage does the work,” Rickon said, leading Jaime in through the main gates. “But Mum supervises!”

When they reached the inner bailey, the entire assembly of Starks was in attendance – although not a single one of them noticed Jaime. Instead, they were gathered around Jon Snow, and Ghost sitting tall and watchful by his side, and the litter of puppies scampering about both of them.

_Well, even at my _most_ charming, I can’t compete with a puppy. _

“Mum!” Rickon bellowed at small-child volume. “He’s here!”

Catelyn looked up from the puppy gambolling about her feet. Her smile, too seemed remarkably genuine, although Jaime bore in mind how convincing she’d been on screen. “Jaime. Excuse us our informality.”

“I’m a late-come guest,” Jaime countered. “All I can expect is to be seated below the salt.”

“This one’s mine!” Arya shrieked, hoisting one of the puppies. “This one’s mine!”

“You don’t get to pick,” Jon said warningly. “They pick. Did she pick you?”

Arya giggled as the puppy licked her face, tail wagging so fiercely it nearly dislodged itself from her hands. “I think so!”

“Ghost has always been able to get out of any house or yard,” Catelyn told Jaime. “Which would not have been a problem, if he wasn’t able to get _into_ any house or yard, including one containing a pure-bred sled dog in heat. The owner was going to have the puppies put down, as useless for breeding. Jon promised to find them homes.”

“Homes here at Winterfell?” Jaime guessed, and Catelyn gave him a slantwise smile. 

“Here, Shaggydog!” Rickon called, and one of the puppies untangled itself and raced towards him. Rickon scooped him up. “He picked me first!”

Robb rose to his feet, cradling a puppy with smoky grey fur. “Jon, I don’t have the kind of life where I can have a dog. With travel, and my hours … ”

Jon rested his hand on Ghost’s head. “Train him properly and he’ll lie quietly in a corner while you wave a rubber sword at an imaginary enemy.”

Robb looked down at the puppy. “Do you think?”

“Oh, Robb, you know you’re going to take him,” Jeyne Westerling said, reaching over Robb’s arm to rub the puppy’s head. “The only question is, what are you going to name him?”

“Mine’s Nymeria!” Arya said.

“Lady,” Sansa said, as the smallest of the puppies licked her fingers.

“Summer.” Bran Stark stood up, holding a silvery grey pup in his arms. “This is Summer.” 

“Grey Wind.” Robb turned a little so Jeyne could pat the puppy more easily.

Something tugged on Jaime’s boots, and he looked down to see one more puppy, a dark and smoky grey, enthusiastically trying to unfasten the laces. “And who is this one?” he asked Jon.

“No-one, yet,” Jon said. “Unless I can find a home for her.”

“She couldn’t stay here? There’s a whole kennels.”

Jon shook his head. “She’d be the only one of her sibs to not have a person of their own. It wouldn’t be good for her.”

Jaime crouched down to retrieve his bootlace from the puppy’s mouth. _Not to have a person of their own. I know what that felt like. _“One of your colleagues in the Night’s Watch, perhaps?” The puppy released Jaime’s laces and fastened small teeth on his thumb instead. “Hey, _no_!” he said sternly, and the pup let go and sat down, staring up at him. “Good. Well done, dog.”

“Perhaps,” Jon said. “I’d have to see who she picked. They’re not like other dogs.”

The little puppy was still sitting obediently, gazing up at him, so Jaime rewarded her with a pat. “How so?”

Jon laughed, in the almost soundless way he had. “Ghost was born in the kennels here. Only pup in the litter, the maester said a wolf must have gotten in or his mother must have gotten out. My uncle sold him north of the Wall, to one of those tourist operations that do rides on sleds with dogs.” Jon looked down and rubbed Ghost’s ears. “He’s big enough, after all. He bid fair to be big enough at six months old.”

The puppy rubbed her head against Jaime’s hand. “And you went and got him back?”

“No.” Jon’s amusement was no less immense for all it was thoroughly restrained. “He broke out of his pen, snuck though Castle Black, turned up in my bedroom one morning with an extremely smug expression. Ned said that he’d made his choice, and he was my responsibility from then on.”

“So Ghost is part wolf, and part …?”

“Northern,” Jon said. “It’s not a recognised breed, but it’s a type. Bred to hunt, to guard, bred for war. Sizeable animals.”

Jaime fondled the little puppy’s ears. “So this little one is half sled dog, one quarter wolf, and one quarter northern war dog.” He scratched under her chin. “That’s quite a lot to live up to, little one.”

“She won’t live up to anything if I can’t find her a home,” Jon said. “The owner of the mother has no time for mongrels.”

_Crone’s cunt._ Jaime picked the puppy up and held her close to his chest without even thinking about it. “They’d put her down?”

“Not my preference, but I can’t manage two dogs,” Jon said.

“But there’s nothing wrong with her!”

“She’s not purebred.”

“Which of us is?” Jaime looked down at the puppy, who had settled in the crook of his arm and was gazing back at him calmly. “I’m sure you could find _someone_ who’d take her.”

“She seems to like you,” Jon said. “You could take her.”

“No.” Jaime stroked the pup’s soft fur. “No, my – that is, there’s a cat. So I can’t get a dog.”

Jon gave a soft chuckle. “Ygritte has a cat, at least, she claims it’s cat, I think it’s at least one quarter shadowcat. He and Ghost get on fine.”

“Really?” The puppy gave an enormous yawn and went to sleep all of a sudden. Jaime shifted his grip to hold her more securely. “Isn’t the saying _to fight like cats and dogs_?”

“Some dogs, maybe.” 

Jaime rubbed the soft fur between the pup’s front legs. “You wouldn’t really have her put down, would you?”

“It wouldn’t be me. But if I can’t find her a home …”

“I’ll take her.” The words were out before Jaime knew he’d say them. _But Stranger fuck me frozen, she’s a tiny scrap of fur, and putting her down just because she’s not some perfect purebred …_ “I’ll take her.”


	127. Jaime XXXVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gets a new assistant

“Mr Lannister?” It was a young woman’s voice, accompanied by a tentative knock on his trailer door. “Mr Lannister?”

Jaime opened his eyes and reached past the puppy to grope for his phone. _Fuck, did the alarm not go off? _But no, it was not even five in the morning. “Sec,” he called, and rolled out of bed. _Smallclothes, pants, shirt …_ He managed to get dressed, picked up the pup so she wouldn’t make a bid for freedom, and opened the door. “Yes. What?”

A pretty young girl with brown eyes and dark hair blinked at him. “Mr Lannister? I’m your assistant.”

“And you’re here at this gods forsaken hour because …?” Jaime rubbed his eyes. “Never mind, come in before we both freeze.” He stepped back from the door, held it open for her, and shut it once she was inside. “Do you want coffee? Tea?”

She stared at him as if he was speaking High Valyrian. “Tea?” she squeaked at last.

“Done.” Jaime put the dog down, filled the electric kettle, plugged it in, nudged the puppy away from his feet, and turned to face the girl. “I’m Jaime, by the way. Not Mr Lannister.”

“Jeyne,” she said. “Jeyne Poole. I don’t really mind what you call me.”

As the kettle bubbled, Jaime realise Jeyne was holding two heavy shopping bags. “Do you want to put those down?”

She looked down, and blushed. “It’s just some things I thought you might need.”

“Well, then, reveal!” Jaime grinned at her. “It’s months until my nameday, so this is definitely a treat.”

Jeyne blushed harder, and put the bags on the narrow bench of the trailer’s kitchenette. “I didn’t know if you preferred beer or wine, so I got both. And cheese – two kinds, from the Crowlands and goat’s cheese from the Gift, I don’t know if you’ve had it but it’s really nice if you’re used to it. Umm. And bread, I mean southron bread, but also I made some real bread? And they didn’t tell me if you were one of those vegetarians or not so I made venison spread and also beet spread, if that’s alright?”

“That’s all perfectly alright.” The kettle screamed, and Jaime dropped a teabag into two mugs and drowned them in boiling water. “I’m not a vegetarian, but I don’t mind eating food that is, so I’ll happily eat both your spreads. Catering services will provide all my food, so you don’t need to worry about what kind of cheese I like. And generally, I prefer beer, but if I’m going to be working the next day, I stick to juice or water.”

“What kind of juice?” Jeyne asked.

“Any kind of fruit, not vegetable.” He scooped the teabags out of the mugs. “Do you want milk? Sugar?”

“Both, please,” she said timidly.

Jaime added milk and sugar one mug. “I’d offer you a seat,” he said as he gave it to her, “but the bed’s still folded down and I’m not sure it would give the impression I’d like.”

Jeyne blushed. “No, I know. Sansa said … she said you weren’t one of those, you know. Movie star men.”

“I’m not.” Jaime picked up his own mug. “Although I think that mostly, none of us are. So take a seat if you’d like, or not if you don’t want.”

Jayne perched on the edge of the bed. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Well if the venison or the beet spread are delicious, I’ll definitely want you to make more.” Jaime sipped his tea. “But mostly? Make sure I’m in the right place at the right time. Pass messages for me to catering, or wardrobe, or makeup. Tell the production manager or the writer’s room when I want to have a meeting, and find a time that suits everyone.”

Jeyne blinked at him over the rim of her mug. “Is that all?”

Jaime grinned at her. “Well, you need to be available to the rest of the production at other times. That will be a lot of administrivia. I hope you like filing.”

“I’m sure I’ll like it a lot more than refilling shelves at the Moat Cailin Speedymart two nights a week,” Jeyne shot back. “And your puppy is about to pee on the floor.”

“Shit, thanks.” Jaime snatched up the puppy as she started to squat, opened the door, and deposited her beside the trailer steps. “I know it’s cold, and dark,” he told her, “but we don’t piss on the floor.”

“What’s her name?” Jeyne asked from inside.

“She doesn’t have one yet. I only got her yesterday.” The puppy finished her business and Jaime picked her up before she could bound away and carried her inside again. “Listen, this is not actually your job, but do you think you could go to the nearest pet store and get … you know, dog things? Don’t worry if you can’t, I can always order online.”

“Online orders take a week to get here,” Jeyne said. “And I don’t mind. Do you want to give me a list?”

“Um, collar, leash, food … if they have a book on how to train a dog, that’d be handy too.”

“Food and water bowls? A coat, for when it gets colder?”

“She’s supposed to be part sled-dog, I don’t think she’ll need a coat.”

Jeyne gave him a patient, pitying look. “She’s a puppy. She’ll chill much faster than a grown dog.”

“Right.” Jaime rubbed the puppy’s head, put her down, and took out his wallet. “How about I give you …” He counted the notes he had. “Five hundred dragons, and you get whatever you and the pet store owner think I need?”

“Five hundred dragons?” Jeyne said.

“If it’s not enough, raven me and I’ll phone the store with my maestercard number.”

“I’m pretty sure it’ll be enough,” Jeyne said faintly, taking the notes and putting them in her own wallet. “I’ll have to go into Moat Cailin so it’ll take a couple of hours at best. What are you going to do with her while you’re acting?”

Jaime shrugged. “Lock her in here, I guess.”

“Then you’ll need to put everything away, shoes, laptop, power cords … puppies chew things.”

“Right.” Jaime looked down at the puppy, who looked back up at him, radiating innocence. “Puppy-proof the trailer, first order of the day.”

Once Jeyne had taken herself off to drive to Moat Cailin, Jaime did just that, shoving everything remotely vulnerable to the puppy’s tiny teeth into the trailer’s cupboards and folding back the bed to reveal the couch. “Let’s see if catering can find you something to eat,” he said to her when he was done, got himself into the insulated clothing that the frozen north required, and picked her up.

Catering services could most definitely produce puppy-appropriate food, once the middle-aged woman staffing the counter tore herself away from cooing over the puppy’s adorableness. “I feed this to my own,” she told Jaime when she came back from the kitchen with a bowl of revolting-looking sludge. “Much better for growing bones than that commercial rubbish.”

When she set it down the puppy dived into it with enthusiasm, so alright, it clearly didn’t look as bad to her as it did to Jaime. “I’m getting some food for her today,” Jaime told the cook. “So I won’t be imposing on you again.”

“It’s no bother,” she assured him. “But I’m supposed to be feeding you, as well! What would you like?”

“Do you have a heart-attack special?” 

She grinned. “Not a patch on Nan’s, I’m afraid, but I can certainly do my best.”

It _wasn’t _a patch on Old Nan’s version, but it was still pretty good, and Jaime cleaned his plate, much to the cook’s satisfaction. Others drifted in while he ate, mostly crew, making a fuss over the puppy as soon as they saw her, which she accepted as her due. Jaime admitted that she didn’t have a name so often he began to feel a bit embarrassed about it.

He took out his phone, opened the _Whisper_ app, and typed _what’s a good name for a dog?_

_Is this a writing question, or a Jaime question?_ his wench replied after a moment.

Jaime grinned at the screen. _Jaime qstn. _

_What sort of dog?_

He turned around, snapped a picture of the puppy in Ygritte Wilding’s arms, and Ravengrammed it. _Check ravengram._

_How adorable_, Brienne whispered after a moment. _Boy or girl?_

_Girl. Ghost is hr dad. Jon’s ghost._

_Oh then she’ll be huge. She needs a big name. _After a pause, more words appeared. _But one you can shout. Don’t go naming her Seasmoke Stormcloud or something, you don’t want to be at the park shouting ‘Here Seasmoke Stormcloud! Here Seasmoke Stormcloud!’_

Jaime chuckled. _How about sheepstealer? _

_Only if you’re very confident that nominative determinism is a fallacy. _

_Tessarion_, he suggested. _She’s sort of blue grey and I can just yell tess. Oh and don’t worry about leo, jon said ghost is fine with ygritte’s cat. _

_I think Leo will have to live with Dad anyway,_ Brienne replied. _If we’re not in one place all the time. Cats don’t travel as well as dogs do. _

_We’ll work it out. He can live in KL and Peck can feed him when we’re not there. Or he can live at Dreamfyre and whoever we gte to take care of the place when were away can feed him. Or he can learn to love his cat-carrier_

_Would you love a cat-carrier?_ Brienne shot back.

_If it was the only way I could spend every night with my head in your lap, absolutely. And he looks like an intelliogent and sensible cat. _

_Jaime, you’re impossible,_ Brienne responded, and Jaime _knew_ her eyes were crinkling at the corners as she tried not to laugh.

“Oh, what a sweet little dog!” a vaguely familiar voice said, and Jaime looked up to see Samwell Tarly bending down to pat the puppy.

“Her name’s Tess,” Jaime said, trying it out. “What brings you to this frozen armpit?”

“Set medic,” Sam said, straightening up with a grunt of effort.

“Still saving up for your residency?”

Sam gave him a small, rueful smile. “Trying to.”

_Wench gtg but sam tarlys here_ Jaime typed quickly and let the _Whisper_ app close. “Well, at least you’re working for Davos Seaworth and not Randick Tarly. Listen, I need to talk to you about maester stuff, when you have a minute.”

“I’ve got one now,” Sam said.

“You’re waiting for your breakfast now,” Jaime pointed out.

Sam put his hands on his round stomach. “It won’t do me any harm to skip a meal.”

Jaime snorted. “It won’t do you any good, either. Get a sandwich and a cuppa, at least. It’s a conversation-type thing, not an emergency.”

Five minutes later they were sitting side-by-side on the couch in Jaime’s trailer with Tess curled on Jaime’s feet, Sam tucking in to a bacon sandwich with enthusiasm. “I just wanted to make you aware that I have what my maester calls _an anxiety disorder_,” Jaime told him. “And it’s mostly fine, but not around my father, and this film …”

Sam nodded, chewed, and swallowed. “Are you on medication?”

Jaime shook his head. “Haven’t needed it. It’s not … _constant_, if that makes sense. Just, when things get bad.”

“Would you be willing to give your regular maester consent to talk to me about it?” Sam asked. “If you don’t feel it’s too much invasion of your privacy, of course. But if I can tell him what I observe, and he can give me the benefit of his experience – I assume he’s a specialist?”

Jaime nodded. “Maester Luwin.”

“Oh, he’s supposed to be excellent.” Sam sipped his tea. “In fact, his book is one of the standard teaching texts at the Citadel.”

“And no, I don’t mind you talking to him,” Jaime said. “I’ll raven him and let him know you’ll be calling.”

“And what else do you want me to do?”

Jaime shrugged. “I mostly just wanted you to know that if I fall over and throw up on myself, it’s not a drug overdose or a seizure.”

Sam nodded firmly. “Don’t worry, Mr Lannister –”

“_Jaime_,” Jaime corrected.

“Don’t worry, Jaime. I’ll do everything I can to take care of you and keep you safe.”


	128. Ravens XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter in ravens from different people's phones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing heaps, so have another chapter! Please give all the chapters some comment love on the way through, though!

19:22 Me: _hey you shd endow a scholarship_

19:25 Little Bro: _why? And for what?_

19:28 Me: _Samwell tarly shd be a maestyer but can’t afford residency_

19:31 Little Bro: _that’s not a scholarship thing it’s a grant_

19:35 Me: _so endow a grant_

19:37 Little Bro: _because?_

19:42 Me: _because I totally lost it on set today and he ordered everyone – incl father – off set. And father actually went. Like, he was heroic._

19:42 Little Bro: _r u ok?_

19:44 Me: _yes. But sam shd be a proper maester not just set medic._

19:52 Little Bro: _k. leave it with me. _

19:55 Little Bro: _how did father take being ordered off his own set?_

20:12 Me: _he stormed off and left Addam in charge of rehearsals_

20:14 Me: _his gravedigger is coming out next month 2 can you get some celebs for the premier?_

20:19 Little Bro: _leave it with me._

* * *

08:22 Onion: _sorry to tell you but we’ve got a hitch_

09:23 The Lord of the Seven Hells: _what?_

09:32 Onion: _there was an electrical short yesterday and it started a small fire. The portaprivies are offline and occ health and safety says I can’t open the production without adequate facilities. _

09:43 The Lord of the Seven Hells: _how long to fix?_

09:45 Onion: _should be by tomorrow_

09:51 The Lord of the Seven Hells: _make sure it is._

* * *

07:10 ST: _I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wanted to discuss our mutual patient. _

07:11 Maester Luwin: _you don’t need to apologise for fulfilling your sworn duties. Please fill me in._

07:12 ST: _he had a severe anxiety attack during rehearsal yesterday. Haven’t seen dissociation like that before. I was out of my depth._

07:13 Maester Luwin: _How is he?_

07:14 ST: _I think ok. I cleared the set and had his assistant bring his dog from his trailer. He recovered faster than I expected with her there._

07:15 Maester Luwin: _have the dog registered as a service/support animal with local authorities. _

07:16 ST: _yes I did. _

07:17 ST: _I’m not sure if he needs medication._

07:18 Maester Luwin: _young man, you mean you think he needs medication_

07:20 ST: _yes but I’m not a maester_

07:22 Maester Luwin: _you’re also on site with the patient and able to observe him. What would you suggest? sweetmilk?_

07:29 ST: _no not under any circumstances_

07:32 Maester Luwin: _good. I’ll raven you a prescription for a mild tranquiliser, for use before stressful situations. _

07:33 Maester Luwin: _I trust your judgement on when to dispense it_

07:34 ST: _I;’m not a proper maester_

07:37 Maester Luwin: _ Young man, you forged the link, and according to the resume you ravened me you’ve been working as a medic for two years. That’s a double residency. Take care of our patient and raven me with any questions you have._

07:40 ST: _yes ser. _

* * *

11:12 Onion: _a little bird told me that you were coming north. _

11:30 Big Brienne: _don’t tell Tywin_

12:22 Onion: _no fear. Just tell me when and I’ll shuffle the sides to get your lad free_

12:35 Big Brienne: _thanks Davos_

14:22 Onion: _happy to help, lass. _

* * *

18:32 Catelyn S: _I‘ve had the hunter’s gate cleared and opened so you can drive straight in._

18:34 B Tarth: _no need I’m fine with parking on the road_

18:42 Catelyn S: _yes but then your car is visible to anyone looking. Jon has had NW checking and no-one is watching when your Jaime isn’t here, but they follow him. So you need to drive in and park out of sight. _

18:44 B Tarth: _alright._

19:05 B Tarth: _Couldn’t commander Snow arrest them or something?_

19:52 Catelyn S: _yes, but the imp says that would tip our hand_

19:58 B Tarth: _we have a hand?_

20:12 Catelyn S: _don’t worry Brienne. Just come north._

* * *

09:22 Onion: _sorry to tell you, but we’re behind again_

09:22 The Lord of the Seven Hells: _what? why?_

09:23 Onion: _food poisoning. Half the crew and almost all the talent is off_

09:24 The Lord of the Seven Hells: _fire the caterers. _

09:26 Onion: _already done. _

* * *

14:22 Fire: _so I have an anonymous tip 4 u_

14:32 Pretty Boy: _not so anonymous, love. _

14:48 Fire: _there’s drug dealing on the Oathkeeper production_

15:10 Pretty Boy: _what sort of drugs_

15:34 Fire: _the illegal sort_

15:48 Pretty Boy: _Ygritte are you trying to get me to order a raid?_

15:53 Fire: _is it working?_

16:04 Fire: _I’ll do that thing you like tonight if you do_

16:05 Fire: _I’ll even wear the costume_

16:10 Pretty Boy: _Ygritte I’m at work!_

* * *

10:22 Onion: _sorry to tell you, but we’ve had another delay_

10:35 The Lord of the Seven Hells: _what?_

10:38 Onion: _night’s watch raid. They had a tip off about drugs. _

10:42 The Lord of the Seven Hells: _how long?_

10:55 Onion: _not sure but we won’t be starting again today. _  
  



	129. Jaime XLIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion's plan bears fruit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warning for references to past sexual assault, past assault, past sexual harassment

“Here we are,” Jaime said to Tess as he brought the car to a halt in front of Winterfell. She looked up at him from the footwell of the passenger seat, ears pricked forward. “Now, you’re going to be meeting Brienne. You need to make a good impression. I mean, nothing bad will happen to you if you don’t, but you’ll have to go and live with someone else – someone nice, I promise – if you and she don’t get on. Alright?”

Tess yawned hugely, which Jaime took as assent. He clipped the lead to her collar, opened the door, and clicked his tongue to encourage her to jump out of the car.

And then scooped her up protectively as a black streak of fur raced towards them.

“Rickon!” Bran Stark said sternly, and Jaime looked up to see the two youngest Starks standing by the main gate. “Make Shaggy heel!”

“He just wants to be friends!” Rickon protested, as the black puppy circled Jaime, snapping at his ankles.

“So does Summer, and he’s not scaring people,” Bran said, leaning down to pat the puppy lying quietly by his feet. “You have to teach him, Rickon. You have to be responsible.”

Rickon sighed. “Shaggy, here boy!” he called. “Come here, Shaggy, come on!”

The black puppy raced back to Rickon. Jaime crossed to the two boys, still carrying Tess. “Hello. This is Tess.”

“Tess of the d’Uplands?” Bran asked, reaching up to caress Tess’s ears.

Jaime grinned. “No. Tess, short for Tessarion.”

“That’s a good choice,” Bran said solemnly. “You can put her down, Shaggy won’t hurt her.”

“If you’re sure …” A little nervously, Jaime set Tess down again. The puppies sniffed each other, tails wagging.

“Everyone’s inside,” Bran said. He grinned. “In the kitchen, mostly, driving Gage insane. Come on.”

They made a little procession with Summer and Tess scampering beside Bran and Jaime and Shaggy gambolling around them. “You’ve got Summer well trained already,” Jaime observed.

“You have to start early, Jon said.” Bran glanced at Rickon. “So they don’t develop any bad habits.”

Rickon sighed. “Shaggy, here boy! Shaggy, heel!”

They rounded the last corner and Brienne was there, leaning against the wall with her arms folded and one ankle crossed over the other. She straightened up and started towards them.

“Let’s go,” Bran said to Rickon. “I bet Gage has finished the lemon cakes.”

“Hello, wench.” Jaime knew he was grinning like a patch-faced fool, but Brienne was beaming back at him and then they were in each other’s arms.

“You’ve got hair again,” Brienne said, running her fingers through the short strands. She kissed him. “And you’re not so scratchy anymore.”

“And catering is in on the conspiracy to feed me up, too,” Jaime said.

“Good.” She kissed him again. “How did rehearsals go today?”

He chuckled. “They didn’t. The Night’s Watch raided the set looking for drugs. We were shut down for the whole day.”

“Drugs?” Brienne’s forehead wrinkled. “Did they find any?”

Jaime shook his head. “I suspect the anonymous tipster made sure everyone knew to expect the raid.” He grinned. “I’ve worked on bad-luck productions before, but there has been an _extraordinary_ run of catastrophes on this one. Almost as if they’re being arranged.”

“Doesn’t your father pay for security to make sure that sort of thing can’t happen?”

“Yes, but they’re mostly to keep people _out _who might have a motive to mess with him. I strongly suspect there’s a little bird or two or ten on the crew.”

“That’s good, then,” Brienne said. “It must mean Tyrion still thinks he can get _Oathkeeper_ back for you.”

“Technically, it’s still mine. I own the rights. If I wasn’t worried about what father would do to Tommen and Myrcella in retaliation, I could just straight up fire him.”

“I’m sure Tyrion has a plan,” Brienne said calmly. 

“I wish he’d hurry up with it.” Jaime leaned his forehead against hers. “I lost it during rehearsal the other day. Just … went away.” He paused. “I think I was trying to, actually,” he admitted. “It was the scene where Goldenhand kills the Blue Knight and I was trying to get through the lines and the blocking without really thinking about what they were.”

“Goldenhand would never kill the Blue Knight.” Brienne ran her fingers through his hair again. “And Tyrion will make sure he never does. Now. Are you going to introduce me to the puppy sitting very patiently by your feet?”

Tess took to Brienne instantly, proving that she was definitely heir to her sire’s intelligence and good judgement, and Brienne made a fuss over her with the goofy smile she always got when she spotted a little kid doing something cute, which she apparently also extended to the young of all creatures. _So that’s alright. _Not that he’d been really worried, since both Tess and Brienne were adorable, and very sensibly adored each other on sight.

Dinner was a relaxed and noisy affair, with Jon and Ygritte in attendance along with all five Stark siblings, Jeyne Westerling, Gendry Waters and Sandor Clegane. Jaime chatted with Robb about his training, teased Jon about the morning’s raid on the _Oathkeeper_ production, and held Brienne’s hand under the table at every opportunity. Afterwards, he and Brienne trailed behind a small procession of Starks giving their dogs one last opportunity to relieve themselves before bed. He was amused to notice that the puppies – and their father – all seemed to be canine copies of their owners: not just Shaggy, racing around with all Rickon’s boundless energy, and Summer, observing everyone with Bran’s quiet watchfulness, but Lady, pacing beside Sansa with the same elegance, Grey Wind sticking as close to Jeyne Westerling’s as Robb Stark did, and Nymeria, enthusiastically chasing sticks that Arya enthusiastically hurled. _And Ghost, of course, quiet and self-contained and always alert for danger._

He looked down at Tess, who was watching Nymeria’s stick-chasing longingly but staying obediently by Jaime’s side. _What do they see when they look at _her_? _

_What do they see when they look at me? _

Bending down, he picked up a puppy-appropriate stick and tossed it as hard as he could. “Fetch, Tess!”

With a happy yelp, Tess bounded after it.

“She’s going to need a lot of exercise,” Brienne said.

“When she’s bigger, she can run with us.” Jaime grinned. “I think Visenya’s Hill would tire even Ghost out. And the books Jeyne bought me all say that mental stimulation is more important.” Tess brought the stick back, tail wagging, and Jaime threw it again. “I have to confess I’ve been letting her sleep on the bed.”

Brienne eyed Ghost. “If she takes after her dad, that’s either going to have to stop or we’re going to have to get the biggest bed in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Then we’ll get the biggest bed in the Seven Kingdoms.” Jaime’s phone squawked, and he ignored it. “_And_ I’ll teach her to sleep in a dog bed.”

“Jaime …” Brienne’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Jaime’s phone squawked again. “Should you check that?”

“The only person whose ravens I long to get is right here with me.”

“Jaime …” she said softly, smiling. Her own phone squawked before she could say anything else, and she took it out. “It’s Tyrion. He says _happy anniversary_.” 

“That’s right.” Jaime leaned up to kiss her. “One year ago today, I was twiddling my thumbs in Moat Cailin Airport, waiting for a production assistant called _Brian._”

“Has it really been a year already?” Brienne said wonderingly.

“I can’t believe it’s _only_ been a year,” Jaime countered. “Twelve short months, and I find myself with a wife and a cat and a dog and two houses – well, potential houses anyway – and friends, wench, actual _friends_.” He took out his own phone. Two unread ravens, both from Tyrion. _Happy anniversary, big bro, hope you like your present_ and then, a moment later _by which I mean watch 1000 eyes and 1 tonight. _Before Jaime could reply, his phone squawked again. _I really mean it, watch. You really want 2 c it. _“Tyrion says we need to watch _One Thousand Eyes And One_ tonight,” he told Brienne.

“Yes, he told me, too,” she said, looking at her phone. “I’ll ask Catelyn if she minds.”

Catelyn Stark, it turned out, was extremely keen to watch _One Thousand Eyes And One_ herself. She packed Bran and Rickon off to bed over their vocal protests, produced a pot of tea and a plate of lemon cakes, and supervised Jon and Robb carrying extra chairs into the living room.

“Now, Arya, Sansa,” Catelyn said as they all sat down, Jaime cajoling Brienne to sit on his lap. “I did debate whether or not to let you watch this, but I think you’re old enough, and it’s going to be news anyway. I’d rather you watch it with me, and we can talk about it later.”

Arya and Sansa nodded, eyes wide.

“You’ve already seen it?” Robb asked his mother.

Catelyn shook her head. “But I know what it’s about, and I know a fair bit about what’s in it.” She clicked the remote, and the last strains of the _Sunspear Vice _theme music drifted out of the TV set. “Jaime, some of this might be hard for you to watch, too. But Tyrion thinks, and I agree, that it’s the best way.”

_What in the seven hells?_ Jaime shifted to reach down and scoop Tess up onto Brienne’s lap. “Consider me warned.”

_One Thousand Eyes_ flashed up on the screen, hanging silent for a few seconds before _And One_ faded in below it. Instead of the cold open Jaime expected, the title was replaced by Brynden Blackwood sitting behind a desk, hands folded in front of him, with his good eye looking straight at the camera. “Good evening,” he said. “Many of you might have joined us this evening to watch our analysis of the first one hundred days of Renly Baratheon’s prime ministership. That program will air next week. Tonight, we bring you a story that we believe cannot wait, both because of its implications and because the women whose stories it is have waited far too long already to be heard, to be believed, to have justice. The following content may be difficult for some of you to view. If you are distressed or personally affected by the content of our program tonight, help is available at the numbers showing on the screen right now. The septas and maesters who will answer your call or raven want you to know you can contact them at any time of the day or night and your call will be completely confidential. We will keep those numbers at the bottom of the screen throughout the program tonight.”

Jaime recognised one of the numbers from a fundraiser he’d attended. _7377328_, spelling out _RESPECT_ on a phone pad. _The kingdom-wide rape hotline. _“Crone’s cunt.” That got him a stern look from Catelyn and a giggle from Arya. “What’s this about?”

And then Brynden Blackwood was gone, and Elia Martell’s face filled the screen. Still beautiful, all these years after she’d practically set fire to the screen in _Volantis_, but there was a fragility to her beauty now that had never been there when she was still working. “I wanted to forget that it happened. I wanted it not to have happened. But it did happen. And I’m tired of being ashamed.”

Another woman, then, one only vaguely familiar. “I didn’t know enough to know that it wasn’t just how movies are made.”

“Who’s that?” Arya asked.

“Ellyn Reyne,” Catelyn said. She glanced at Jaime. “You might know her as Ellyn Tarbeck?”

“Oh, yes,” Jaime said, placing her. “She was in one of my father’s films.”

“Yes,” Catelyn said. “She was in one of your father’s films.”

A third woman, older, a complete stranger. “It’s not like I hadn’t done nude scenes,” she said. “But … this was different.”

And then, one after the other, Elia Martell, Ellyn Reyne, the third woman: “Tywin Lannister. Tywin Lannister. _Tywin Lannister_.”

“People think _Volantis _was my last film,” Elia told the camera. “But that’s because it took so long in post-production and then they pushed back the release for the Iron Thrones. The last film I made was _Last Tango in Pentos._” She took a deep breath. “With Gregor Clegane.” Sandor snarled at the screen. “The critics all said I acted the rape scene so well. But I wasn’t acting. Lannister said afterwards he wanted me to feel, to react and not act, so he kept that scene secret from me until we were actually filming it. I’m not saying that the rape was real – Clegane didn’t go that far. But I was naked, with him on top of me, his hands everywhere, and I kept begging him to stop, begging Lannister to stop the scene. And neither of them listened.”

“Gods be good,” Brienne murmured, taking Jaime’s hand and lacing her fingers through his. “Did you know about that?”

Jaime shook his head. “But you know, it makes sense, given … the thing I told you. That he’d work like that.”

“Just so you know,” Jon said mildly, “Sansa, Arya – that’s definitely a crime, what she described. Don’t ever not report something like that because _the rape wasn’t real_. It’s still sexual assault.”

“Or just tell me and I’ll cut their balls off,” Ygritte said.

“Also a crime, love,” Jon said, just as mildly.

It was Ellyn Reyne’s turn on screen now. “I was really excited to have the chance to work with Tywin Lannister,” she said. “Even then, he had an amazing reputation, and I thought my career would be made by being in one of his films. Instead, it was the last film I ever made. _The Drowning of Castamere_, I don’t know if you saw it? My character, the Red Lioness, drowns in the end. We filmed it in a tank, I was promised it was safe. Well, maybe it _was_ safe, because I didn’t die, but it didn’t feel safe. The water kept pouring in, and in, and the tank had a roof, for the roof of the mines, there wasn’t a lot of CGI in those days. The tank kept filling and filling and the space between the water and the roof got smaller and smaller and then there was no space at all. And I couldn’t get out of the tank until they lifted the roof off. I thought something had gone wrong. I thought I was going to die. It went on for … it felt like hours. I still have nightmares about it.” She gave a small, bitter smile. “And then the roof came off and there was the great Tywin Lannister, congratulating himself on getting the perfect shot. I think if I _had_ drowned, he would have put _that_ in the film.”

“How can he have gotten away with this?” Sansa asked in a small, shocked voice.

“He has a lot of power,” Catelyn said.

“But Dad never said anything about Tywin being like that!” Arya protested. “I mean, he made … I dunno, three films with him?”

“He might not have known,” Jaime said. “I mean, you’re not on set when you’re not actually filming. If something _did_ happen to one of the actresses on one of those films, your father probably wasn’t there.”

“Why didn’t they tell anyone until now, then?” Arya challenged.

“Ellyn did,” Catelyn said. “She told just about everyone. And she got a reputation as a hysterical troublemaker, and she couldn’t get work doing dinner theatre.” She paused. “There were … rumours. That he was difficult to work with, particularly for women. But they were just rumours, and just about him being demanding.”

“All Lannister would have to do is laugh it off,” Robb said slowly. “Say, oh, she misunderstood, she over-reacted, she knew about the scene but was too lazy to read the script properly …”

“He’s very free with non-disclosure agreements, too,” Jaime said tightly. “For cast and crew.”

Gendry nodded. “We all had to sign them. I mean, I’m doing a little bit of work on the weapons and armour for the film, but even the docents and the serving staff, who aren’t anything to do with the movie, had to sign a confidentiality agreement to keep working at Castle Cerwyn while it’s being used for the film.”

Jaime sat numbly through the next interview, with the woman he hadn’t recognised, who identified herself as the body double for the Mad Queen in _Walk of Shame._ A different story, but the same story in a way. _He said I had to be authentic. It took a week to shoot. Usually you get a robe between takes, usually you don’t have to do more than a few hours of nudity on any one day, but it was all day, every day, and I was naked as my nameday from the first moment to the last. And the stuff the extras threw at me? That was real rotten fruit, real fish heads, real faeces. All day, every day, for a week, a hundred people spitting on me and screaming that I was an ugly whore_.

“How did they find out about this?” Brienne asked Catelyn. “I mean, I assume Tyrion, but how did Tyrion know?”

“I did something I should have done years ago,” Catelyn said. “I sent a raven to every woman I know in the industry and asked them if they, or someone they knew, had a story to tell.”

“Why _didn’t_ you do it years ago?” Sansa asked.

“Because your father needed to work, and I needed to be able to get my clients booked,” Catelyn said a little sharply. “And neither of us could afford to get the same label as Ellyn. I’m not saying I was right, Sansa. I’m just saying it was more complicated than you think.”

Brynden Blackwood was back on the screen. “We have one more story to tell tonight. Unfortunately, the people whose story it really is can’t tell it. One of them is sadly deceased, and the other has been silenced by intimidatory legal instruments.”

“Crone’s cunt,” Jaime breathed, feeling cold from head to foot. “Tyrion, what have you done?”

“But with the help of recently unearthed on-set footage shot by a crew member testing his new personal camera, which is not covered by either copyright or the NDAs Tywin Lannister made everyone involved in the production in question sign, we are finally able to know the truth of what happened on that last, fatal day on the production of _Kingslayer._”

“Did Tyrion know?” Brienne asked quietly. “Did you tell him?”

He nodded. “You were right, the fact that he’s my lawyer was a loophole.”

Grainy, shaky footage on the screen then, and Jaime was abruptly seventeen again. Aerys Targaryen with his mad eyes and his wild, white hair. “I need more,” he was saying to Pycelle, barely understandable at a distance but helpfully captioned on the screen. “I can’t – I need more, or we’ll have to stop for the night. And we can’t stop. They’re plotting against me, you know. All of them.” He turned away, scratching at his arms with his claw-like hands, his overgrown nails. “But I’ll show them. Show them all. Burn them all, I’ll burn them all …”

The snippet ended, to be replaced by Daenerys Targaryen, very pretty, very young. “It was an open secret for many years that my father struggled with mental health challenges,” she said with what Jaime could only think was enviable composure. _Certainly better than mine at the moment. _“But my brother always told me, and I continue to believe, that he had started a new chapter of his life. Until _Kingslayer._ Until Tywin Lannister. It breaks my heart to see him so unwell, at the mercy of people who don’t have his best interests at heart. Clearly he needed to be in a hospital, but from what I’ve learned about Tywin Lannister, my father’s mental breakdown wasn’t just a _by-product_ of Lannister’s film-making methods. It was the desired goal. He was, after all, playing the Mad King. The Mad King who burned his enemies alive with wildfire.” She paused. “I have been very bitter towards the man who ended his life. But from what I’ve learned recently, I believe that it was _Tywin_ Lannister who bears responsibility for my father’s death. I now believe Jaime Lannister acted to prevent a greater tragedy.” 

Brynden appeared on screen again. “The Gold Cloaks concluded that the death of Aerys Targaryen was the tragic outcome of an argument that got out of hand. We asked the Cloak’s Commander at the time, Janos Slynt, if he was still confident of that conclusion, given this newly revealed footage and the crime-scene report, seen by this program, stating that Aerys Targaryen was found dead in a pool of wildfire in the props room, a cigarette lighter by his hand. Mr Slynt, who has since retired, did not respond to our request for comment or our invitation to appear on tonight’s program. However, I have a statement from current Commander Jacelyn Bywater. ‘While I have not been previously aware of the circumstances you refer to, in the interests of justice I have ordered a review of the investigation into the death of Aerys Targaryen. I note, for the sake of those this investigation may concern, that no civil laws concerning either confidentiality or copyright take precedence over every citizen’s obligation to answer questions and provide materials when asked.’” Brynden gave one of those pregnant, solemn pauses he was so good at. “Lives ruined, lives lost, careers cut short and psyches scarred. The true story behind Tywin Lannister’s gilded reputation as a film-maker, and the legacy for which he should _truly_ be remembered. This has been _One Thousand Eyes And One. _Goodnight.”

Catelyn turned off the television. “I wish you’d told Ned what had happened,” she said quietly to Jaime.

“I wish he’d _asked_,” Jaime shot back. “I was _seventeen_ and I’d just killed a poor, sick, mad old man trying to keep him from burning the Red Keep to the ground for the second time in its storied history. And Ned fucking Stark found me staring at the body, drenched in wildfire from head to foot, and he asked me what _I’d_ done. Saved his life, is what I’d done! Saved him, saved everyone else on _Kingslayer_, saved thousands of people who live and work in the Red Keep, probably saved half the population of King’s Landing given just how _much_ fucking wildfire Aerys was preparing to set off. _Burn them all_, he’d been saying all day, he didn’t know where he stopped and the Mad King started anymore, _burn them all_ and he meant _all_.” He stopped. They were all staring at him with various degrees of horror, and _fuck_, he’d fooled himself into thinking that if the truth was known people wouldn’t hate him any more, but he’d been wrong – he had to get out of there, away from all those accusing Stark faces, but Brienne was in his lap and he couldn’t get up without dumping her on the floor –

“Just breathe,” Brienne said gently, turning to wrap her arms around him. “Just breathe in and out, Jaime. It’s over now. It’s over.”

He breathed in and out, and leaned against her, and tried not to mind that he’d been wrong to imagine he could lose the Kingslayer label once and for all, one day. _Brienne knows. Brienne understands._ That had been enough yesterday, and it would be enough tomorrow.

“I’m really sorry, Jaime,” Arya said in a small voice. “I’m really sorry that happened to you, and I’m really sorry that Dad didn’t ask you the right questions. And thank you for saving his life.”

“I can make tea, if you’d like?” Sansa offered. “Or there’s hippocras.”

“There’s also Qarth liqueur,” Robb said. “Which I know because I bought it. Get the bottle, Sansa, and plenty of glasses.”

And none of the Starklings sounded like they were hating him, so Jaime raised his head from Brienne’s shoulder. Still the same expressions of slightly stunned horror, but he could see now it wasn’t horror at _his_ monstrosity.

“Are you going to put that cunt Lannister in jail?” Ygritte asked Jon.

“It doesn’t sound like any of that happened in the Night’s Watch’s jurisdiction,” Jon said.

“He felt me up on set last week?” Ygritte offered.

Jon smiled at her. “No, he didn’t.”

“Well, he might of.”

“I think there’s going to be more than enough true stories about him, love,” Jon told her. “I mean, those three women have to be the tip of the iceberg, don’t you think? How many films has he made over the years?”

“Enough,” Jaime said. Sansa came back with the bottle and glasses. She poured for Jaime first. “Thanks.” His phone squawked and he handed the glass to Brienne so he could dig it out. _I hope you enjoyed your anniversary gift_, Tyrion’s raven read. _Incidentally I just filed an injunction with the Crownlands Family Court barring father from attempting to overturn T&M’s custody on the grounds of gross moral turpitude, tonight’s show exhibit a. Aunt Genna’s sworn affidavit about my childhood exhibit b. Am confident it will be upheld especially when tomorrow’s news hit. no custody suit, no DNA test, no publicity. So feel free to fire him – I put a morals clause in HIS contract – and flaunt your domestic happiness the length and breadth of the Seven Kingdoms. _

_Tomorrow’s news?_ Jaime sent back.

_The Dragon Queen doesn’t turn eighteen until next month but father’s had her rehearsing for him naked as her nameday, for authenticity. She’ll confirm it tomorrow and give interviews describing her distress and trauma._

Jaime blinked at the screen. _Why would she do that? Why did she go on the show?_

_Varys got his hands on some footage that 1001 eyes couldn’t use,_ Tyrion sent back, _but it was entirely legal for me to show her in private. You never mentioned trying to get a maester on set for aerys. _

_I didn’t,_ Jaime sent back. Had he? Would he even remember? So much of those long, horrible days and nights had been spent in as much of a dream as he could manage, thinking of home, thinking of Cersei.

_Brother mine, it’s on tape, security CCTV, and thanks to father’s paranoia wired for sound as well. You, a very pretty seventeen, begging father to let you get Aerys help. Also a little bird located the original police report, the one that never made it to the official investigation. The one where you told them what happened b4 father got to you. the one that mentions wildfire ankle deep on the props room floor. Let’s say it changed the Dragon Queen’s opinion on who is really responsible for her father’s death. Spoiler alert: not you. Now go fire father, so you – or rather I as you – can announce it tomorrow._

_Tyrion, I owe you,_ Jaime typed. _Thank you._

_We’re not even close to even,_ Tyrion retorted.

“I have to make a call,” Jaime told Brienne. “Outside. Will you come with me?”

She nodded and got up. Tess of course assumed that if her people were going somewhere, she was invited, so Jaime found himself in the slightly surreal circumstances of dialling his father’s number while leaning against one of Winterfell’s ancient stone walls, Brienne tucked against his side and Tess sitting on his feet.

“What do you want?” Tywin’s usual answer to every call. Not _hello, son._ Not _how are you_.

Jaime swallowed hard. “Did you watch _One Thousand Eyes_ tonight?” he asked.

“I don’t have time for that drivel. Or to spend time talking about it, so if that’s the only reason for your call –”

“Elia Martell,” Jaime interrupted. “Ellyn Reyne. The _Walk of Shame_. And the truth about _Kingslayer_. That was tonight’s show.”

Tywin snorted. “Good, I’ll enjoy bankrupting that one-eyed phoney Brynden. A few misremembered tales by hysterical women –”

“I don’t think that’s going to work, father.” Jaime found Brienne’s hand and squeezed it. “Mine might be the first call, but it won’t be the last. I suggest you get in touch with your lawyers, given some of the allegations were _criminal_. Meanwhile, in light of the morals clause in your contract –”

“The _what?_” 

“I can’t continue to employ you on _Oathkeeper._ The termination is effective immediately, and you are barred from set. Any belongings you left behind will be sent to you care of Casterly Rock Studios.”

“Jaime, think about what you’re doing,” Tywin said warningly. “Do you really think you can make this film with the kind of scandal you’re courting by this nonsense? I don’t make empty threats.”

“I can make it, and I will make it, and the only person who should be worried about scandal is _you_. Goodbye, father. Any future correspondence should be directed to my lawyer at Lannister and Stokeworth.”

“I will _ruin_ you –” Tywin started.

Jaime hung up. He took a deep breath, and grinned at Brienne. “Well,” he said. “That’s done. Should we go back inside and talk to the assorted Starks and Stark-adjacent guests?”

Brienne shook her head. “I think we should go to bed.”

So they did. 


	130. Ravens XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Ravengram feed

_Olenna@Highgarden: I was shocked, but sadly not surprised, to see 1001 eyes story. Many women in our industry have shared private stories about Tywin Lannister in the past. One of the only ways women in ½_

_Olenna@Highgarden: film have been able to keep each other safe is by warning each other. It is my hope that times have finally changed._

_Smallboy@spider: this raven from Olenna tyrell is worth reading _

_Catelyn@Winterfell: I was utterly horrified by the revelations on 1001 Eyes. I wish to assure all my clients I will never accept casting work from Tywin Lannister again. The safety of my clients is of paramount importance to me. ½_

_Catelyn@Winterfell: I am deeply remorseful that I did not inform myself of the truth behind the rumours of his behaviour and deeply saddened to think that I might have put any of my clients at risk. _

_Olenna@Highgarden @ Catelyn@Winterfell: Don’t beat yourself up, dear. None of us talked about it, not out loud. He was the worst, but not the only._

_Davos@Onion: I was absolutely disgusted by what I saw last night and have resigned from Casterly Rock’s current production, effective immediately. _

_Bird@spider: looks like Tywin’s losing staff_

_Roslin@TheTwins: Thank the Seven I never worked with Tywin Lannister #luckyescape_

_Jon@NightsWatch: Thank you to everyone who has inquired, I can assure you that any unlawful acts alleged to have occurred in our jurisdiction will be fully investigated. Please come forward if you have information._

_Bywater@GoldCloaks: Thank you to everyone who has inquired, I can assure you that any unlawful acts alleged to have occurred in our jurisdiction will be fully investigated. Please come forward if you have information._

_Renly@StormsEnd: To everyone affected by last night’s 1001 eyes program, know that the Small Council hears you and supports you. Help is available through 7377328. Law enforcement throughout the Seven Kingdoms have been directed to investigate the allegations._

_Daenerys@Targaryen: Although I am only a young girl, it seems to me that it should never be necessary for an actress to rehearse entirely nude, especially one who is still a legal minor. Full statement at weirnet.meereenmonthly.DanyTargspeaks . _

_Smallgirl@spider: looks like TL hasn’t changed his spots_

_Robb@Winterfell: I will no longer be involved in any production Tywin Lannister has a part of. _

_Rose@Highgarden: I will no longer be involved in any production Tywin Lannister has a role in._

_Victaria@Highgarden: I will no longer be part of any production that involves Tywin Lannister._

_Smallbird@spider: well I guess Tywin won’t be making any films any time soon. _

_Queen@Throne: I am shocked and saddened by the allegations against my uncle. With help from my maesters, I have come to realise that his behaviour towards me when I was younger played a large part in my need to self-medicate. ½_

_Queen@Throne: I hope that in time, my children will come to understand that my failures as a mother were Tywin’s fault. _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth: No win, no fee representation for anyone seeking reparations against Tywin Lannister. Call or raven Lannister Stokeworth now. _

_Gerold@Darkstar: I’m completely horrified by the allegations last night, it sickens me to know that wmen in my family were exposed to such behaviour. This is not the 3rd century! #believewomen_

_Shae@Chataya: as a sex worker, I understand the importance of safety and consent. Tywin Lannister apparently understands neither. _

_Roose@Dreadfort: I wish to announce that the business relationship between Casterly Rock Studios and Flayed Man Enterprises has ended. _

_Oberyn@RedViper: my sister thanks all those who have sent messages of support but asks for privacy_

_Brynden@1001Eyes: anyone who wishes to speak about their experiences with Tywin Lannister can contact our program with complete assurance of confidentially. _

_Bronn@LannisterStokeworth: If you need to use your job to see a bird naked, well, that says more about you than it does about her. _

_BlueKnight@Evenstar: If anyone is affected by last night’s One Thousand Eyes And One program, please reach out to RESPECT or to your local law enforcement, whichever you feel more comfortable with. There are people who can help. 1/3 _

_BlueKnight@Evenstar: if someone you know discloses they’ve been affected, the best thing you can do is to listen, believe them, and connect them with professional help. 2/3_

_BlueKnight@Evenstar: this is a difficult and traumatic conversation for many people and may be the first time they’ve disclosed what happened to them. Respect the courage that takes and help your friends and family connect with trained professionals._

_Meera@ReedAir @ BlueKnight@Evenstar: If he’d tried it with you you would have broken his jaw_

_BlueKnight@Evenstar @ Meera@ReedAir: that’s inaccurate. I’m not an aspiring actress relying on Tywin Lannister’s approval. Physical strength can’t protect a woman against institutional power imbalances. ½_

_BlueKnight@Evenstar @ Meera@ReedAir: None of the women who have brought allegations against Tywin Lannister had any defence again him, even if they had been armed to the teeth. _

_Meera@ReedAir @ BlueKnight@Evenstar: k sorry. Didn’t think it through_

_BlueKnight@Evenstar @ Meera@ReedAir: It’s alright. A lot of people think like that. _

_Meera@ReedAir @ BlueKnight@Evenstar: are you #metoo?_

_BlueKnight@Evenstar @ Meera@ReedAir: No. are you?_

_Meera@ReedAir @ BlueKnight@Evenstar: No. _

_BlueKnight@Evenstar @ Meera@ReedAir: I’m glad. _

_Jeyne@TheCrag: It’s disgraceful that women are expected to endure this in this day and age. It’s not the 3rd century!_

_Arys@Oakheart: I will never again make a film with Tywin Lannister_

_Arthur@Dawnstar: I wish to announce that from today, I will direct my residuals for the film Smiles of a Summer Knight to the RESPECT organisation. _

_Doran@Sunspear: In honour of my sister’s courage in revealing her ordeal publicly, the first day’s screening of Once Upon A Time In Dorne will raise funds for RESPECT. All ticket sales will go to the organisation. _

_Barristan@Bold: Working with Elia Martell was a pure pleasure. I am devastated to learn the reasons behind her early retirement. _

_Garlan@Highgarden: Under no circumstances will I work with Tywin Lannister again_

_Edmure@Riverrun: I am sickened and shocked by the allegations made against Tywin Lannister. I believe they should be thoroughly investigated by the authorities for the sake of all concerned._

_Jaime@LannistarthProductions: Tywin Lannister will no longer be directing my film Oathkeeper. I am pleased to announce that Olenna Tyrell will return as director of the film, with my cousin Addam Marbrand – who had no knowledge of Tywin Lannister’s alleged behaviour – as first assistant director._

_Olenna@Highgarden: I am delighted to return to Oathkeeper, a truly ground-breaking interpretation of the Long Night informed by Jaime Lannister’s deep understanding of the history, characters, and legends of the time. _

_Pia@LannistarthProductions: I worked as an assistant to Gregor Clegane and let’s just say I have no trouble believing Elia Martell._

_Catelyn@Winterfell @ Olenna@Highgarden: I’m thrilled to offer Winterfell to you for location filming_

_Olenna@Highgarden @ Catelyn@Winterfell: I’m overjoyed to accept _

_Rose@Highgarden: With the removal of Tywin Lannister as director, I am happy to say that I continue to look forward to the opportunity to bring Rose to the screen_

_Robb@Winterfell: Since Tywin Lannister is no longer directing, I am excited by the prospect of playing the Young Wolf in what promises to be the defining movie about the Long Night. _

_Victaria@Highgarden: I regret to say that a scheduling conflict will prevent me continuing in the role of the Blue Knight in Oathkeeper. However, I’m happy to be able to say the character will be in excellent hands, with Brienne Tarth taking on the role. She’s my #BlueKnight_

_Lyanna@BearIsland: yay #BrienneBlueKnight! I saw her beat Arthur@Dawnstar she was amazing_

_Arthur@Dawnstar: congratulations BlueKnight@Evenstar on #BrienneBlueKnight. Raven me if you want any tips. And I look forward to being first in line for a ticket when the Oathkeeper comes out._

_Arianne@Sunspear: what wonderful news #BrienneBlueKnight! A true hero playing a true hero!_

_Willa@Manderly: #BrienneBlueKnight she’s my #BlueKnight_

_Renly@StormsEnd: I was privileged to see #BrienneBlueKnight in action when she worked on my protection detail. No-one embodies better the qualities the Blue Knight was renowned for, each and every day. _

_Ellaria@Sandship: #BrienneBlueKnight is my #BlueKnight and my champion_

_Sansa@Winterfell: I want to put on record that last night’s revelations made me truly grateful to Jaime Lannister, who saved my father’s life and untold others. More here weirnet.freefolkfortnightly.reviledforhisfinestact _

_Tyrion@LannisterStokeworth: to whomever it may concern, Lannister and Stokeworth have been retained by Freefolk Fortnightly_

_littlebird@spider: that story by sansa stark is really something weirnet.freefolkfortnightly.reviledforhisfinestact_

_smallgirl@spider: have you read weirnet.freefolkfortnightly.reviledforhisfinestact ? amazing!_

_smallboy@spider: weirnet.freefolkfortnightly.reviledforhisfinestact is quite the read. #arresttywin _

_Imp@ImpsDelight @ Bywater@GoldCloaks: I’m no lawyer, but the details in weirnet.freefolkfortnightly.reviledforhisfinestact seem to add up to conspiracy to pervert the course of justice under section 142, part three, subsection xi of the Crownlands Criminal Code. _

_bird@spider: GBG my friend works at a KL hotel and sent me this. [a picture of Brienne and Oberyn walking away from each other in a hotel corridor]. Looks like it was just a business meeting after all! #Lannistarth_

_Smallbird@spider @ bird@spider: My friend on Tarth says they’re building a house and he sneaks away to see her there all the time #Lannistarth_

_Gilly@Crastercare: I just feel so sad for all those women who were hurt. Someone should pay. What kind of Seven Kingdoms do we live in if there’s no justice for women?_

_Smallgirl@spider: Gilly@Crastercare makes a really good point about justice #arrestTywin_

_Thoros@lightlord: The night may be dark and full of terrors, but no workplace should be. _

_BlueKnight@Evenstar: Thank you everyone for the well-wishes and congratulations. I’m nervous about the responsibility to portray such an important figure in our history, especially in the history of Westerosi women, but I promise I will do my best. _


	131. Brienne LII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filming ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With great thanks to SeeThemFlying for reading this and assuring me it wasn’t complete nonsense.

“You sure the fit’s alright?” Gendry asked for the fifth time.

Brienne nodded, and tried to smile. “It’s perfect. I wish I could keep it when production’s done.”

“Nah, it wouldn’t do you any good in a real fight.” He tugged on the straps of her pauldrons yet again. “But I figured since you’re going to be in it for most of every day, it was more important that it look right and be comfortable, so I made some adjustments.”

“And I appreciate it.” Brienne swung her arms.

“Don’t look so nervous,” Gendry said. “Arya said that Sansa said that their Mum said that Olenna said you were doing fine in rehearsals.”

“I’m not an actor,” Brienne said. “All I can do is look where I’m supposed to and stand where I’m supposed to and say what I’m supposed to.”

“That’s ninety percent of the job, wench,” Jaime said from the doorway of the wardrobe trailer, already in costume – making the bright green glove that would let the CGI artists give him a golden prosthesis look very odd indeed. “Know your lines, hit your marks, and don’t look directly at the camera.”

Brienne smiled despite her jittering nerves, struggling into the heavy padded coat that she’d rely on to stay warm between takes. “And the other ten percent?”

“Believing what you’re doing.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, between her helm’s nosepiece and cheek-flap. “And when it comes to fighting, you do, and the rest of it is being in love with Goldenhand, and that’s me, so you’ll be fine. Come on.” He took her hand. “It’s bad luck to be late on the first day of proper shooting.”

Brienne nodded and let him lead her out of the trailer and towards the walls. _Six weeks of rehearsals, and it’s finally here. The day I ruin Jaime’s film in front of Olenna Tyrell and a hundred cast and crew._ Oh, the rehearsals had been mostly alright, since pretty much everything the Blue Knight had to say was eminently sensible and something Brienne would probably have said herself in the circumstance. _Get behind me_, for example, and _guard the rear. _Also _look out_ and _behind you_. She’d worried about learning the fight against the dragon, and making it convincing, since Olenna Tyrell had flatly refused to consider using a mechanical dragon, but Jaime had recruited Sandor to stand in for the dragon and honestly, when he was coming at her with a pole and a flail, Brienne forgot all about it being just for show and defended herself for her life.

_But none of that is _acting_, not acting like Jaime does, when he makes you forget that what’s happening on the screen is just people playing make-believe. _

_Stop, wait, I can’t do it_, she wanted to say. _It’s a mistake, I should never have agreed!_ But Jaime had her hand in a firm clasp and towed her onward, and she was clumsy and tongue-tied again as if she was seventeen. Suddenly the cameras were in sight, set up to shoot the scene against Winterfell’s massive walls. _Learn your lines, hit your marks, don’t look at the camera_, Brienne chanted to herself. _Learn your lines, hit your marks, don’t look at the camera. Learn your lines, hit your marks … _

“Wench.” Jaime stopped and turned to face her. “Stop panicking. Panic attacks are _my_ thing, remember? Tell me about the Blue Knight.”

Brienne took a deep breath. “Well, she’s the Young Wolf’s trusted advisor –”

“No, wench, the real Blue Knight. Tell me who she was.”

“She was the first woman knighted in the Seven Kingdoms,” Brienne said. “She was also known as the Blue Beauty. According to Ebrose, she was given a sword by Goldenhand the Just and she used to it protect the smallfolk against bandits. She’s not mentioned in the contemporary accounts of the Long Night, but not many people are, by name. The first chronicle to give details of her life wasn’t written until the sixth century, and in that, she’s identified as the Evenstar of Tarth, described as being very tall, and said to have played a role in helping Theon and Jeyne escape from captivity. That’s also the first mention of her fighting against the Others.”

Jaime nodded. “Ice spiders as big as hounds. Do you think she would? Have joined in the war for the dawn?”

Brienne stared at him. “Of course. She was sworn to defend the innocent.”

“Why?”

“Because she was a knight,” Brienne explained patiently. “Those are the oaths.”

Jaime shook his head. “No. I mean, why did she take the oaths? Why did she keep them?”

“Because she was tall and strong and could fight, and because she was a woman she knew what it meant to be someone who couldn’t, and what happened to them.” Brienne frowned. “She was a _knight_, Jaime, a _real_ knight, I know you like to be cynical but –”

“That’s right. She was a real, true knight. Goldenhand gave her a sword –” He touched the replica sheathed on her hip. “And she used it to protect people who needed it, who couldn’t give her anything in return, because it was the right thing to do. And when the news came about the Others, she rode North and pledged her sword to the Young Wolf. All that’s happened, so far. That’s where we are.”

Brienne nodded. “Alright.”

“And she loves Goldenhand, and he loves her, but they’ve been separated for a long time.” He grinned. “Maybe he has an asshole father who doesn’t approve, who knows? But here he is, at the end of the world, bringing his soldiers to fight _for_ the Young Wolf and not, for once, against him. Not just his soldiers, but the Dragon Queen, because he’s made common cause with her against his family, who are ignoring the threat of the cold gods. And she doesn’t know that, the Blue Knight, when she first sees him, because maybe he’s taking advantage of the situation to win the war at last, alright?” Brienne nodded. “But she knows _him_. So she makes a choice to believe in him. Alright?” Brienne nodded again, and Jaime smiled. “You _can_ do this, Brienne. You _are_ the Blue Knight.”

“Know my lines, hit my marks, don’t look at the camera,” Brienne said, and tried to return his smile as they trudged through the snow to their places.

The arrival of Goldenhand’s army would be shot on a different day, in an entirely different place, an aspect of film-making that Brienne still found a bit confusing. Today was the first conversation between Goldenhand and the Young Wolf. _And the Blue Knight. _Brienne surrendered her coat to the assistant collecting them, accepted a fur-trimmed cloak from wardrobe as a poor substitute, and tried to tuck it around herself as securely as she could. Her breath steamed in the frigid air. _Stop complaining,_ she told herself sternly. _After all, you have thermal underwear, unlike the real Blue Knight. She would have put up with cold far worse than this with no warm trailer to go back to. _

“Do you feel as silly as me in this get up?” Jon Snow said quietly, and Brienne turned to see him behind her, kitted out as a northern soldier circa 300AC.

“I didn’t know you were an actor,” she said, surprised.

He gave her a small smile. “I’m not. I’m here as a dog-handler.” He indicated Robb with a jerk of his chin, and Brienne turned to see Ghost lying majestically at Robb Stark’s feet. “And also to provide Ned Stark’s face for the film. I’m supposed to, and I quote Ms Tyrell, _stand still, look pretty, and keep that animal under control._”

“I wish that’s all _I_ had to do,” Brienne said with feeling. “Although looking pretty is beyond me.”

“I think your brief includes _look terrifying_ instead, and you do.”

“Alright, places everyone!” Addam Marbrand called. “Quiet on set! Roll sound.”

“Sound aye,” someone Brienne couldn’t see said.

“Roll camera!”

“Camera rolling.”

“Oathkeeper act one scene four, take one,” Addam said. “All ready.”

“Action,” Olenna said imperiously.

Jaime crunched forward over the snow, Daenerys Targaryen by his side. _She’s so young,_ Brienne thought. _And she looks so cold. She grew up in Essos, didn’t she? She must have never imagined it was possible for anywhere to be this cold. _Jaime had a thick cloak similar to Brienne’s slung about his shoulders but Daenerys had only a coat. They came to a stop a few feet in front of Robb and Margaery, Sarella Sand as the Young Wolf’s sister, disguised as a man, standing just behind them.

“Warden,” Jaime said, sounding as if he was in on a private joke. “Or is it Your Grace? I can’t keep up.”

“You’re here under a flag of parley,” Robb said, and gods be good all Brienne’s nerves twitched at the edge to his voice. “So parley.”

“Why, I come to aid your cause,” Jaime said, still amused. Brienne clenched her hand on the hilt of her sword. _No, Jaime, don’t taunt him, he’s on the edge of his control._

“And I am supposed to believe that?” Robb spat back. “After what you’ve done?”

It was her cue, and Brienne had an instant of astonished wonder that she’d ever worried about missing it, because her feet were propelling her forward without conscious thought, to stand between Jaime and Robb. “Your grace,” she said, and it came out in exactly the same tone as she would have used back when she was in the Cloaks and cajoling an aggressive drunk. “I know this man. He has been your enemy, yes, but he has never been dishonourable. He gave me the sword I wear, the sword I swore to your service. If he says he is here to fight for the dawn, then he is.”

Robb’s jaw worked, his hand flexing on the hilt of his sword. “You vouch for him.”

“I do,” Brienne said firmly, as firmly as she’d ever said anything similar to his mother or his siblings.

“You would fight beside him?”

“I would.”

Brienne held her breath for a long moment, until Robb gave a short nod. “We need all the allies we can get. Talk to my wife about housing and provisioning your men. Welcome to Winterfell.”

And that was the scene, so Brienne let out a breath of relief and turned to Daenerys Targaryen. “You can’t be used to this weather.”

“Keep rolling,” Olenna ordered, whatever that meant, as Daenerys gave a small smile, and a nod. 

“Your grace, forgive me,” Jaime said, swinging his cloak from his shoulders and wrapping it around the diminutive, fair-haired girl.

“Ser,” Margaery said, picking her way carefully towards them. “We can house a hundred of your men, but the others will need to sleep under canvas until we can build more barracks.”

“So long as that canvas is inside your walls,” Jaime countered.

Brienne looked from one to the other. They seemed imperviously to the cold, while she herself couldn’t feel her feet and Daenerys was visibly shivering, even with Jaime’s cloak. _And the scene is over._ _Those lines belong to Jaime’s next scene, that I’m not in. _“Do we really need to stand here in the cold talking about it?” she said at last.

Margaery smiled. “Rely on the Blue Knight for sense in every situation.”

“Oh, I do,” Jaime said earnestly.

“Cut!” Olenna called, and assistants scrambled to bring the actors their coats. Brienne shrugged into hers and groped in the pocket for the heating control.

“Places, everyone!” Addam shouted.

“What just happened?” Brienne hissed at Jaime as they slogged back to their starting positions.

He grinned at her. “What happened is, you were perfect.”

“Rake the snow!” Addam ordered. “We go again in five!”

“I want just that again,” Olenna instructed. “Except, Jaime, I want five percent more arrogance. Margaery, I want some alarm when the Young Wolf speaks, Sarella, the same from you. Daenerys, feel free to look cold before the Blue Knight mentions it.”

“That’s easy,” Daenerys said, almost swallowed by her coat. “I can look cold all day.”

“Robb, you were perfect. Jon, can you get that creature to look threatening? But not actually attack any of the actors, obviously.”

“Ghost, sit up,” Jon called, and the dog heaved himself up to a sitting position.

“That’s fine,” Olenna said. “Brienne, just do exactly what you did. Just exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, this movie-in-a-story that’s a fix-it and also sort of an ending to ASOIAF although in a partial, scrambled way with people standing in for other people when the ASOIAF characters are also in this story but not in the movie or in the movie in different ways … it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to write so I’m really sorry if I’m messing it up and please give me feedback if I am because I am happy to take the chapters about it down to fix.


	132. Jaime L

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's wench is upset. Fortunately, he knows how to fix things for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You were all so nice about the last chapter it gave me the courage to post this one.
> 
> With great thanks to SeeThemFlying for reading this and assuring me it wasn’t complete nonsense.

Jaime knocked on their trailer door. “Wench?”

“It’s not locked,” she said.

He opened the door and stepped inside. “On the one hand I feel I should give you your space. On the other, I feel like you might be upset about something. Sit, Tess.” The puppy planted her backside obediently on the floor, and Jaime closed the door and unclipped her leash.

“I was terrible!” Brienne wailed from the trailer’s bedroom.

“You were not.” Jaime shrugged out of his coat and hung it beside the door. “You were the only one who didn’t get notes from the Queen of Thorns after the first take.”

“And then I was dreadful. I couldn’t do … whatever it was she liked again.”

“Wench, it doesn’t matter. Where’s your laptop?”

“On the counter.”

Jaime found the laptop, clucked at Tess to tell her to follow him, and made his way into the bedroom.

Brienne was sprawled on the bed, pillow clutched firmly over her head, Leo lying on her stomach. “Of course it matters! It’s your film, and I’m ruining it!”

“Wench.” He sat down beside her and opened the laptop. “I persuaded Olenna to do an emergency rough cut of today’s scene, because I had a sneaking suspicion you might be in a funk.” He patted the bed and Tess jumped up, nosed him, nosed Brienne, and then lay down beside her. “Take the pillow off your face and watch this.”

“I can’t bear it,” Brienne mumbled. “It was so awful. I didn’t know what I was doing!”

“Sit up and watch,” Jaime said, pulling the pillow out of her hands. “Wench, I keep telling you that you can trust me to say when you’re being ridiculous. So trust me.”

Brienne huffed, but she sat up, fondling Tess’s ears. “I don’t know if I can bear it.”

Jaime plugged the weirstick into the laptop, found the file, and pressed play. “You absolutely can, you were magnificent.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Watch.”

“Oh, gods be good, that’s the bad take,” Brienne said almost immediately.

Jaime grinned. “Is it, though?” On the laptop screen, Brienne strode forward, hand clenched on the hilt of her lion-head sword. _Your grace_, she said calmingly.

“But that’s not the same take!” Brienne said. 

Jaime leaned over to kiss her temple. “Welcome to the magic of movies.”

On the laptop screen, Brienne swore that she trusted Goldenhand, that she’d fight beside him, intercut with later takes of Robb staring distrustfully at them both while Ghost sat beside him as if ready to tear out both their throats. Jaime didn’t think it was self-congratulation to say he’d absolutely nailed Goldenhand’s surprised delight when the Blue Knight sprang to his defence, and he’d _definitely _hit the right note when he’d put his own cloak around the Dragon Queen’s shoulders.

“You see?” Jaime said, when the scene had finished. “You only need to get it right once.”

“How did they do that?” Brienne asked, staring at the still image on the screen. “That was … we filmed for half the day and that was from_ all_ of it.”

“The same way Ulwyck cut your interview together,” Jaime told her. “You know I keep talking about things being fixed in post? This is fixing things in post. There’s a reason Olenna has cameras on everyone, it’s so she can pick and chose the best takes for everyone and the editor can put them together so it looks like it’s all one scene.” He kissed her cheek. “You’re probably going to get the first take better than all the rest, because you won’t be stale, and that’s the hardest thing to learn, to be fresh every time – but Olenna knows that, this isn’t her first tourney. I told you, you’ll be fine. You’re not pretending to be someone you’re not, after all. You’re just imagining different circumstances.”

Brienne rolled over to bury her face against his shoulder, dislodging Leo. “I wasn’t, today. I honestly was frightened that Robb had lost it.”

Jaime chuckled. “He’s good, isn’t he? I thought he would be.”

“I don’t want to worry about people hating you,” Brienne said, muffled against his shoulder.

“Lucky for you, the Young Wolf comes to his senses in about another half-an-act,” Jaime told her. “And trust me, you’ll miss only having to worry about people hating me when we get up to the night shoots. At least most of the actual fighting is going to be on a sound stage. Winter in Highgarden is much more pleasant than winter in Winterfell. Want to run lines for tomorrow?”

Brienne shook her head. “But I know I should.” She heaved a sigh, and reached out to pick up her sides. “Um. The Dragon Queen and the Young Wolf argue, Rose tries to make peace. She wants to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and he wants to be King in the North. Then you come in, and we look at each other, and you say –”

“Your graces, perhaps we can argue about dividing the spoils of war when the war is won,” Jaime said.

“And then Sarella, sorry, She Wolf, tells the Young Wolf that he has nothing to worry about and that they need the Dragon Queen and they look at each other meaningfully and he agrees with Goldenhand. And then Goldenhand and the Dragon Queen go out –”

Jaime nodded. “Your _southron_ grace, your dragon is making the northern forces nervous.”

“And the Blue Knight says, your grace, I agree that this is not the time for contention in our camp, but we must look to the future as well. I do not think the Dragon Queen will surrender her ambitions so easily. And She Wolf says, to rule the Seven Kingdoms is not her destiny. To save them is. And that’s the scene.” She dropped the pages. “And that’s all I’ve got for tomorrow.”

“And it’s in the Great Hall, so at least you’ll be warm,” Jaime said cheerfully. “I, on the other hand, have to spend the rest of the day rallying the spirits of the extras in the snow. Remind me again why I thought this film was a good idea?”

Brienne smiled. “You know it’s a good idea. And it’s a brilliant touch to have Jon bring Ghost. No-one who doesn’t _know_ will notice, but the second the third act reveal happens everyone who knows will remember that the Young Wolf and the White Wolf were side-by-side in the first scene.”

“And Jon Snow’s Ned Stark face all the way through,” Jaime said smugly. “Thank the Seven he had enough vacation days accrued for all the days he and Ghost are needed.”

“It’s a nice touch, too, having the current Commander of the Night’s Watch in a film that’s sort of about the one-thousandth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“It’s a pity I couldn’t make the Young Wolf _actually_ a Commander of the Night’s Watch, rather than the King in the North, but then I couldn’t have Rose at all because of the whole take-no-wife thing.”

“Wasn’t there a woman who disguised herself as a man to join the Night’s Watch?” Brienne leaned back against his shoulder and reached up to run her fingers through his hair. “There’s a song about it.” 

“A sad song, that ends badly. And besides, Olenna says one woman passing as a man is enough, and she’s probably right. Otherwise it’s all secret identities and it gets ridiculous. No, King of Winter he must be.” Jaime tilted his head to grin up at her. “But I did manage to get Olenna to agree to another of my brilliant ideas.”

She smiled down at him. “What?”

“You’ll find out on Smith’s Day. Now. Do you want to watch _Sunspear Vice, _the rest of _Mantarys Doll,_ or continue your education on all the films you so unaccountably missed when you were being responsible and working full-time like a normal person?” 

“Film,” Brienne decided.

Jaime opened up Weirflix on her laptop. “_From Braavos With Love_ it is!”

The rest of the week passed in a blur, but it was a good blur, the kind that happened when a film was going well and Jaime found himself moved from scene to scene and set to set with barely chance to catch his breath. He’d never worked with the Queen of Thorns before, and it was a pleasure to learn that she was _good_: not just as good as her Iron Throne nominations would suggest, but the kind of director who could be both firm and flexible, who listened to her cast and her crew and asked their opinions, and who knew exactly how to tweak the script to make sure Brienne’s inexperience didn’t show on screen. He found himself hanging around the set even when he wasn’t on call, despite the bone-crushing cold of all the outdoor shoots, just to watch as she took his idea and Willas and Alys Karstark’s script and gave it life and breath and flesh. Olenna started saying _what do you think, Jaime?_ without even looking around to check that he was there, and over the course of the week Jaime went from saying _looks good_, every time to making the occasional suggestion. _Rose shouldn’t be surprised when She Wolf reveals she’s a woman,_ he said. _The Young Wolf would trust her with the information_, and Olenna nodded and gave Margaery a note and in the next take, Jaime wasn’t sure how she did it, Rose was clearly surprised by the revelation before the assembled Lords of the North but _not_ by its content.

Asha Greyjoy arrived to shoot her three scenes and a bunch of reaction shots that would be edited in later, and to Jaime’s delighted surprise, so did Jeor Mormont, declaring that he wasn’t going to miss the chance of playing _the_ Mormont of the age of ice and fire, thank you very much. He’d aged a bit since they’d filmed _The Deserter_ together, and aged still more at the hands of wardrobe and Jaqen H'ghar in makeup, but he was still huge and barrel-chested with a voice that could shake the stones of Winterfell. And he knew his craft, no doubt about it, and Olenna didn’t need to do much more than call _action_ and _cut_ for his scenes as commander of the archers, shot at twilight and then at night so they could be slotted in to the Long Night and the battle for Winterfell. When one of the extras fumbled his cue and loosed an arrow early, Jeor turned on a dime and bellowed _I said nock and hold! Does nock mean draw?_ A ragged chorus of _no sir _came back from the bemused extras, who’d all been told to on no account open their mouths lest they move themselves to a higher pay-grade. _Does draw mean loose?_ Jeor roared, and got a stronger _no, sir! _in response. _Do you all plan to die here tonight?_

_No sir!_ the extras shouted back, and Jeor showed the trace of a smile. _That’s very good to hear_.

_Cut, and print,_ Olenna said. _That’s a wrap, and a location wrap for Jeor. And a better Bear we couldn’t have hoped to have. See you in Highgarden, Jeor, for your death scene._

_I’m getting too old to like hearing that_, Jeor grumbled, but he was grinning.

Then they had a couple of days of shooting to set up the eve-of-battle sequence, all filmed in the late afternoon and early evening, transitioning the cast and crew into the coming night shooting as well as transitioning the film from the stark white sunlit snow of the first act to the darkness of the Long Night. Jaime tramped in and out of doorways and around the dressed set of the courtyard as required, not called upon to do much beyond look grave and sensible of the danger ahead. He did have one scene with Brienne, where Goldenhand reassured a nervous Blue Knight and she blurted out part of the prophecy about the Last Hero – _a hero to drive back the darkness but never to leave it, a hero to bring back the summer but never to share it. _For once, Olenna pestered Brienne with detailed notes and quibbles about how she was standing, until Brienne was trembling with anxiety. _Jaime, I’m getting it wrong, I’m getting it all wrong!_ she whispered and then Olenna called _action_ again. Brienne managed to get her lines out in a voice with a tendency to tremble. _She’s your queen_, she finished. _I’m sorry._ Jaime gave her his best smile. _My loyalty is given elsewhere, and I for one love the night, since it is the only time I can see the evenstar. _Then he gave her his best dirty grin and winked, and Brienne blushed pink and fought not to smile, and Olenna called cut and came over to apologise to Brienne. _Nerves are the hardest thing to fake,_ she said, _the seven know I never managed it convincingly. You’ve been doing perfectly well all along, and I’m sorry for the subterfuge of making you doubt that._

Brienne forgave her immediately, but Jaime was irritated with Olenna for several hours, until he saw the rushes and had to admit she’d bottled lightning.

Then it was Smith’s Day, and Jaime spent the day grinning to himself and refusing to answer Brienne’s questions about what the surprise was. It was absolutely worth it to see her face when they all trooped into the Great Hall to take their places for the dinner scene to find Mance Rayder and Barbrey Dustin perched on the bard’s platform.

Pretty much everyone’s sides for the day said little more than _all drinking, talking, and listening to the bards_ although Robb had a nice little speech about finding friends on the battlefield, after which they all shouted _The King in the North! The King in the North! _until the rafters rang. The set dressers had done a sterling job – the only things in the room that were out of place were the cameras, the crew, and the green-screen where the table with Bear and She Bear would be added in later. Barbrey and Mance played _The Bear and the Maiden Fair _and _The Dornishman’s Wife_ with the lyrics changed to make it _the northerner’s wife_ instead, and _A Cask of Ale_ and _Off To Gulltown_, while everybody pretended to eat and drink – or actually ate and drank, the food being real and it being past dinner – and more than a few people sang along to the choruses. As the plates grew empty, the music shifted to a more contemplative tone and the crowd grew quiet to listen. Barbrey Dustin sang _Autumn of My Day _and Mance sang _The Last Hero_, which wasn’t from the period but sounded like it might be.

Then Mance leaned forward, fingers caressing the strings of his lute. “We face a dark time, perhaps the darkest,” he said. “None of us knows what’s come. None of us know if we will see a dawn, even if there will _be_ a dawn. That’s a truth, a hard truth, but a truth. But there are other truths, too, truths stronger than any darkness and brighter than any dawn, and it’s those truths I sing of to you tonight.” He struck a note, another, and Barbrey joined him, each of them carrying part of the same tune rather than harmonising. “Brothers and sisters, come listen to me,” they sang together, Barbrey’s melancholy, slightly hoarse voice blending perfectly with Mance’s husky, flexible baritone. “These are things that I give unto thee. The swords of our fathers, with lessons hard taught, these shields strong and study from battles well fought. Now this is your sword and this is your shield, both are the power of love revealed. Carry them with you wherever you go, and give all the love that you have in your souls.”

Brienne slipped her hand into Jaime’s under the table and he turned to see her blinking back tears. _What would Goldenhand do? Fuck it, Olenna can always cut it out_. Jaime raised Brienne’s hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, and was rewarded with her brilliant smile.

“These shields will protect your secret heart,” the bards sang. “These swords will defend from what comes in the dark. Should you grow weary of the battlefield, do not despair for your love is real. Now this is your sword and this is your shield, both are the power of love revealed. Carry them with you wherever you go, and give all the love that you have in your souls.”

The last chord died away and there was utter silence. Then Robb remembered that it was his cue, and Margaery remembered that it was hers, and they turned to each other and embraced fiercely.

“Everyone, hug the person next to you,” Olenna instructed and around the Great Hall, cast and extras exchanged hugs, some comradely, some less so. Sarella put her arms around Daenerys, face filled with the sorrow of the prophecy She Wolf thought she understood.

Jaime turned to Brienne, who had lost her battle with tears. He swiped one from her cheek with the thumb of his left hand. “Don’t weep,” he said softly. “Don’t you know that if a bard sings it, it must be true?” He drew her into an embrace, the chaste comfort that Goldenhand would have allowed himself with a woman not his wife.

When he released her, Brienne opened her mouth to give her next line – _but_ _it’s always summer in the songs_ – but a sudden, terrifying horn blast made her jump.

“They’re in the town! They’re in the town!” shouted Garlan Tyrell from the doorway, clearly immensely enjoying his most minor role in a decade.

Robb gave one startled blink, and segued smoothly into the speech he was supposed to be giving in three days time when they shot the rallying-in-the-courtyard scene. “One hundred generations have defended this castle. It’s never fallen before, and it will not fall tonight, no matter the length this night should be! Tonight, we fight, and when the sun rises once again, I promise you … Winterfell will stand! The North will stand!” From somewhere, he summoned up a roar that would have done credit to Robert Baratheon. “With me now! Now, with me!”

“Cut,” Olenna said. Jaime glanced over at her. She was looking like a cat that had gotten into the sweet iced milk, and Jaime couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t wait to see the rushes.

“Alright, everyone, we’ve rehearsed the rush to battle, if you’re not in your places, get into them now, please,” Addam said. “Sarella, you need to be one large step closer to Margaery. You there with the blue circle shield, you’re in completely the wrong place. Table four, with the lizard-lion. Thank you. Horse-head, yes you, change places with the woman on your right, thank you. You with the star, you need to be on the left of the black dog, no, your other left, thank you.” He looked down at the papers he held. “Alright everybody, let’s all please mind the power cables both for the sake of the cameras and for the sake of not breaking our necks. Quiet on set! Roll sound.”

“Sound aye.”

“Roll camera!”

“Camera rolling.”

“Oathkeeper act two scene eleven, take one,” Addam said. “All ready.”

“And someone get that coffee cup out of shot!” Olenna ordered, and a grip darted to obey. “Thank you. Action!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to janie_tangerine for suggesting the Bruce Springsteen song, “This is your sword” as the Oathkeeper theme.


	133. Brienne LIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne's last scene on location.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With great thanks to SeeThemFlying for reading this and assuring me it wasn’t complete nonsense.

_Gods be good, it’s cold. _Brienne thanked the Mother’s mercy that this was the last scene she had on nights or, indeed, on location. It felt disloyal to be pleased at the prospect of leaving Winterfell, but Tess was outgrowing her coat and Brienne was sure she herself was getting chilblains. _And I wouldn’t be so eager to get back south if I was spending my nights indoors like a normal person, and wearing actual winter clothing instead of a costume designer’s idea of what a third century knight would wear. _She dreaded the moment when Addam would call _places_ and she’d have to surrender her coat.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jaime called, climbing up the stairs to the top of the wall. “My thrice-damned pants ripped when they were dressing me, and I didn’t think the scene would be enhanced by the audience glimpsing Goldenhand’s thermals.”

“No, but my night certainly would be,” Olenna said from somewhere inside snow-lined hood that stuck out a hand’s breadth from her face. “Addam, you’re shivering.”

“S-s-sorry,” Addam said, teeth chattering.

“Don’t be sorry, go and get warm. I don’t need to lose my assistant director to frostbite or hypothermia before we even start studio work.”

“B-but –”

“Young man,” Olenna said sternly, “I may be elderly, but I am not senile. I am quite capable of saying _roll sound_ myself, thank you. Go and make yourself useful to Davos Seaworth in some _indoors_ way.”

“Thank y-y-you,” Addam said, and fled.

“And actually, that goes for most of the rest of you, too. First and second camera and boom is all I’ll need tonight.”

The crew didn’t need telling twice. Brienne watched them with a little envy as they bolted for the stairs.

Olenna picked her way carefully across the icy stone of the rampart and tilted her head to look up at Brienne. “Bend down a little, dear.” Brienne stooped obediently. “Now, this is going to be the hardest scene for you to shoot, because it’s all emotion. I made a point of watching your rehearsal with Jaime, and you were too stiff and standoffish. The Blue Knight _loves_ this man, she loves him with everything she has, and she’s convinced they’re both going to die. Die horribly. This is the end of the world, do you understand? And she’s never told him that she loves him, and she’s never even kissed him, and everything in her longs more than anything – even more than winning the battle – to keep him safe. Can you find that feeling? That feeling like disaster is coming, and if there’s one thing, one single thing, that you absolutely can’t stand about it, it’s the idea that something will happen to this man that you love.”

Brienne bit her lip. “I think so.” After all, she’d felt a little like that when they were in the hands of the Brave Companions, hadn’t she? When Jaime had been so ill and she’d been sure he was going to die, and the fact that the gang would kill her to get rid of a witness if he did had been only a minuscule skerrick of the terror she’d felt.

“And then when he kisses you, it’s wonderful. It’s unexpected, but it’s so wonderful you’re not afraid any more. When was the first time Jaime kissed you?”

“In Dorne,” Brienne said, smiling at the memory. All the movies she’d seen had prepared her to expect some passionate assault, but Jaime had been so gentle, so slow.

“And it was a good first kiss, I can tell from your face. So when Goldenhand kisses the Blue Knight, I want you to remember that first kiss in Dorne, alright?”

Brienne nodded. “I can do that, I think.”

“Good.” Olenna patted her arm. “You’ll be fine, I promise. Now straighten up before you get a crick in your back from talking to tiny old me.” She made her way back over to the camera. “Places, please. Quiet on set, roll sound. Roll cameras. _Oathkeeper _act two scene fourteen, take one, action!”

Brienne stared out at the night, trying to see the flames of the burning Wintertown that would be added later. Her cloak was a poor substitute for the coat that had been stripped from her the moment Olenna said _places. _She let herself shiver. _The Blue Knight would have shivered, knowing what’s ahead. _Her helm was in her hand, this being one of the few outdoor scenes when she wasn’t completely arrayed for battle, and she clutched it hard. _Jaime, burning with fever, labouring for breath, so still and limp in her arms …_

“Surveying the field?” Jaime said behind her, and Brienne turned. He was all Goldenhand in that moment, standing tall against the weight of a command that would have felled a lesser man, beautiful but battered and weary and facing what might be his last fight.

“There are so many of them,” Brienne said, her one full line of the scene. “All the dead in the North, it looks like.”

“The castle will stand.” Jaime came to stand beside her. “And we know they burn. We have boiling oil, we have arrows, and we have a dragon. The castle will stand.” Brienne shook her head mutely, and Jaime reached up to touch her chin with his left hand and turn her face towards him. “Do not despair, ser,” he said softly, tenderly, and then stretched up to kiss her – _there should be a blizzard_, Brienne thought suddenly, _there should be a blizzard_ – but really, it was hard to think of anything when Jaime was kissing her as if they weren’t on a film set dressed up as long-dead heroes. _That first kiss_, she remembered, and when he drew back she smiled at him, at her Jaime who had saved her life and kissed her in Dorne and given her a priceless sword. 

Jaime smiled back. “This is your sword, and this is your shield,” he murmured. “Carry them with you wherever you go.”

Brienne nodded, still smiling.

“Cut!” Olenna said. Young Jeyne Poole sprang forward with their coats and Brienne wrapped herself in hers gratefully. “Jaime, Goldenhand doesn’t knight the Blue Knight until the third act.”

“Shit,” Jaime said, zipping up his coat. “Can you cut around it?”

“Probably not.” Olenna paused. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter. It shows he already _thinks_ of her as a knight, as his equal. It’s probably best that be established before he makes his move, all things considered. But I’ll ask Willas to put a scene in somewhere that makes it clear.”

“So long as it can be filmed in the studio,” Jaime said. “I’m going to have no more balls than a merman if I have to spend any more time freezing them off. Let’s make our next film about the sack of King’s Landing, I recall that was said to happen in the summer. Do you need us to go again?”

“Let me watch it back,” Olenna told the cameraman imperiously, and he swivelled the monitor. She watched for a moment. “It depends if you mind me having it lightened a bit in post. It’s slightly too dark.”

“Will it still look alright?” Brienne asked.

“Yes, dear, it will still look alright.” Olenna watched the footage again. “But I think I’d like one more. This time, Jaime, when you kiss her, raise your right hand to her shoulder. And Brienne, put _your_ hand on his wrist, just below where the artificial hand would be. Just below the glove.”

“Nice,” Jaime said, obviously understanding something about the direction that Brienne didn’t get. “But let’s nail it this time, alright? Brienne is freezing.”

“_Brienne_ isn’t the one complaining about the cold,” Olenna said dryly. “But, yes, let’s try and nail it this time for _Brienne’s_ sake. Places again, please.”

“Do you want me leave in the _ser_?” Jaime asked as he shrugged out of his coat.

“No. Let’s get one without, and if I don’t like it I’ll use the other. Be a bit more confident this time, Jaime. Goldenhand _knows_ the Blue Knight loves him, he’s just been too proper to do anything about it.”

“Got it.” Jaime fastened his cloak, helped Brienne with hers, and trotted back to his place.

“Roll sound, roll camera … _Oathkeeper _act two scene fourteen, take two, action!” 

Brienne tried to do what she’d done before, with the addition of touching Jaime’s wrist, but Olenna shook her head, so they did it again, and again, and again after that, until finally Jaime demanded a break and a hot drink for both of them and walked Brienne away from the cameras, to the other end of the rampart.

“I’m sorry,” she told him miserably.

“Don’t be. This is really hard, this scene.” Jaime put his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. “Listen, what Olenna said … are you thinking about the Brave Companions, when they broke my hand?” Brienne nodded. “Let me make a suggestion, and tell me to shut up if you don’t want to do it. Think about White Harbour instead, think about little Willa Manderly. The Blue Knight isn’t helpless and worried, she’s preparing for the fight of her life against impossible odds. She’s frightened, she thinks she’s going to lose, she absolutely knows she’s likely to be hurt. But she’s not going to back down, because that’s not who she is, and she’s going to put her life on the line to protect Goldenhand.” He grinned at her. “In about three scenes from now, in fact. It’s right to be afraid, because she’s not a robot with no emotions. But be strong despite it, do you see?”

Brienne nodded. “I think so. I’m not sure I can act that, though.”

“Drink your tea, have a think, and do your best,” Jaime advised. “You were perfectly fine in the first take, and if Olenna ends up using that one it’ll still be great. Alright?”

“Alright,” Brienne said, and Jaime waved Jeyne over with their steaming drinks. The warmth of the tea made her feel better as she drank it staring over the battlements. _An army of dead men … and only us to stop them. We have no chance. But there’s no choice. Everyone’s gathered here in Winterfell for safety … women and children who can’t fight, who are depending on us to keep them safe. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. She’s not a knight, not yet, in this version, but she deserves to be. She’s probably sworn the vows to herself, over and over, reminding herself of what she wants to be. _

“Places,” Olenna called, and Brienne trudged back to the cameras, shed her coat, and took her position. _She probably knew she might die from the first time she picked up a sword, really. It was a dangerous time, the age of ice and fire. People she knows, people she likes, they’ve died. She’s killed people. Dying doesn’t scare her. _

_Failing does. _

“Surveying the field?” Jaime said, and Brienne turned.

“There are so many of them. All the dead in the North, it looks like.” _And all the living in the North here, the Blue Knight’s responsibility. _Because she was here, and she could do something to help, so she had to. _Just like I had to in White Harbour. _Jaime said his line about boiling oil and dragons, turned her face to his, kissed her – Brienne found his wrist and gripped it tightly, just past the glove that covered his scars. _He’d be scared too, Goldenhand. He’s human too, even if he was a hero. He would have worried about the Blue Knight being killed or hurt, like she would have worried about him. They were being brave for each other._ _Like I was brave for Jaime when I knew the Brave Companions were going to kill me, like he was brave for me when he made a joke about thapphires. _Jaime drew back and she smiled at him, her ridiculous, charming, exasperatingly excessive, _brave_, husband.

Jaime didn’t smile, this take. He looked at her the way he’d looked at her the first time she’d drawn Oathkeeper, instead. “This is your sword, and this is your shield,” he said, soft and earnest. “Carry them with you wherever you go.”

And then, because the Blue Knight would have, because Goldenhand would have needed her to, Brienne leaned forward and pressed her lips to his again. “You as well,” she said tenderly. “You as well.”

There was a moment’s silence as they looked at each other, the Blue Knight and Goldenhand, Brienne and Jaime, it didn’t really matter which. “Cut,” Olenna said finally. “That’s a wrap, ladies and gentlemen. Someone get my stars their coats and take them somewhere warm. Brienne, I’ll see you in Highgarden.”


	134. Brienne LIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne flies south.

Jaime had another week’s location shooting after Brienne was finished. Brienne assumed she would wait for him, but Olenna assumed Brienne would go straight to Highgarden and start rehearsals for the scenes she’d shoot there and, as Brienne had come to understand, on a film set the director’s assumptions were the ones that won. Instead of a week off lying around in their trailer and giving Tess all the walks she craved, she found herself on a Reed Air flight to King’s Landing with Leo in a cat carrier in the seat next to her after one day off to celebrate Robb and Jeyne’s marriage in the old godswood of Winterfell.

Brienne was used to be stared at wherever she went, and today she was flying with a cat who’d gotten his own first-class seat, so she didn’t think anything about the sideways looks she was getting from the other passengers until Meera Reed stopped by her seat, holding something behind her back.

“Miss Tarth?”

“It’s Brienne, please,” Brienne said. “How did you go at Rosby? I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you fight.”

Meera smiled. “I made it to the third round, and then Syrio Forel kicked my arse.”

“Don’t feel bad about that,” Brienne hastened to tell her. “Syrio’s a legend.”

“Oh, I don’t, I promise. And he said he’d take me on as a student if I was in King’s Landing, and I’m working on Dad to let me lay-over there once a week so I can have a lesson.” She wrinkled her nose. “There’s no reason Jojen can’t learn to serve drinks and demonstrate the oxygen masks, at least sometimes.”

“Then I will definitely find a way to watch you at your next tourney,” Brienne promised.

“Seven Hells, don’t say that, I’ll be too nervous to hold my sword!”

Brienne laughed. “Alright. I will, on no account, come and watch you.”

“Can I ask you something?” Meera asked. She produced a cardboard tube and a marker pen from behind her back. “Could you sign this for me?”

“Ah, yes,” Brienne said, a little nonplussed. “Of course. What is it?”

“A poster.”

Brienne took the tube and opened it, taking out the glossy paper rolled inside. Carefully, she unfurled it. A woman stared out at her from the poster, backlit by fire, crystals of snow caught in her fair hair. The sword in her hand caught the light of the flames and cast it up to her face, outlining the resolute set of her jaw and sparking off her brilliant blue eyes. _She looks like a hero_, Brienne thought, and then, in the next heartbeat, _that’s me._

Her, and not her. Her large, thrice-broken nose was too big for a woman’s, but in proportion with her square jaw. Her swollen, puffy lips were composed in a firm line, the freckles that blotched her skin were barely noticeable compared to her blazing eyes. Her huge shoulders and heavy arms were in perfect proportion to the armour she wore and the sword she held. _Oathkeeper _was the single word on the poster, angled to run up the blade of her blazing sword.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” Meera said nervously. “I just – I shouldn’t bother customers, I know, but you were so nice, and I –”

“No, you’re alright, it’s alright,” Brienne said. She had to clear her throat before she could go on. “I just hadn’t seen it, before. It looks good.”

“They’ve really captured you,” Meera said.

Brienne stared at her. “It’s not … I mean, I don’t …” _They’ve really captured you._ She swallowed. “Is this … how I look?”

Meera smiled. “You’re much nicer in person, but yes.”

“Alright,” Brienne said a little numbly. She signed her name across the bottom of the poster and handed it back to Meera.

“Arya said you were all almost finished in Winterfell?”

Brienne nodded. “I’m headed to Highgarden for all the special effects shoots.”

“I can’t wait to see the movie,” Meera said, carefully rolling the poster up and putting it back in the tube. “Arya says that Ms Tyrell promised Catelyn they could have their own private premiere at Winterfell, after the official one but before _Oathkeeper_ comes out in theatres, and we’re all invited! Arya wants us all to dress up like the characters.”

“Gendry could probably help,” Brienne said. “He did all the armour for _Oathkeeper_.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to commence our decent into King’s Landing,” Meera’s father said from the cockpit, and Meera gave Brienne one last grin and hurried away. “Unlike Moat Cailin, it’s a scorching hot fifteen degrees today, so dig your Summer Islands shirts out of your carry-ons. For those of you finishing your journey here, you will find your luggage at carousel nine B. For those with further travel, please follow the clearly marked signs to the transfer desk. Please refrain from using your mobile phone or any other electronic devices until you are well inside the terminal, and once again, thank you for flying Reed Air.”

Brienne duly took her carry-on and her cat to the transfer desk and was directed to a different part of the Aegon Targaryen Memorial Airport where the Staunton-Rook departure gates were. As soon as she identified herself, she was whisked off to a separate lounge, offered a glass of champagne – which she declined – and assured she’d be personally notified when her flight was ready to depart.

_Rich people world_, Brienne thought, reaching through the grille of the cat-carrier to scratch Leo under the chin. _And apparently also mine, now._

“Is this the handsome fellow I follow on Ravengram?” a deep baritone asked, and Brienne looked up to see Barristan Selmy smiling down at her, blue eyes twinkling.

“Yes,” Brienne said. “His name is Leo.”

Barristan sat down beside her and joined her in giving Leo his due of attention. “I’m pleased to see you looking so well,” he said. “I hoped to see you at the premiere for _Once Upon A Time In Dorne_ but Jaime said you were shooting that evening.”

Brienne nodded. “I was sorry to miss it, for Jaime’s sake, but I was standing in the cold pretending to give the Young Wolf bad news about our defences, instead.” She gave Barristan a small smile. “And I hate watching him die.”

He laughed. “He was very good. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets an Iron Throne for it.”

“Can I tell him you said that?” Brienne asked.

“Of course. You know, I didn’t manage to get to Rosby for the tourney, but I watched your fight with Arthur on RookTube. There’s not one in ten thousand who could have given him a contest like that. It made me long to be young again, and face you in the square.”

Brienne felt her cheeks burn. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“It’s only a truth. What a fight that would be! I was always better than Arthur, you know, until my knees packed up. Not that he’d admit it, but I beat him three times and he only beat me twice. _The Bold_, they called me, back in the day. Are you on to Highgarden as well?”

Brienne nodded. “For the film.”

“_Oathkeeper_, yes. Something else to make me wish I was younger. Olenna sent me a script, but these old bones couldn’t take a northern winter.” He smiled at her. “How are you finding movie-making? Has it ruined films for you now you know what goes into the sausage?”

She smiled back. “Not in the least, but it has given me new admiration for all the people who work so hard to make the films I enjoy. _Volantis_ among them.”

Barristan’s smile dimmed a bit. “I’m not sure how I feel about _Volantis_ anymore, myself, knowing what was about to happen to Elia.”

Impulsively, Brienne put her hand over his. “It was her last happy film,” she said. “The last one before everything was ruined for her. And it’s the greatest movie ever made. I think that’s how to feel about it, maybe.”

“She was happy, yes. We’d watch the rushes every night, we knew what we were making. I was excited about what it would mean for my career, but there was something so generous in Elia, she was just delighted for everyone involved. She was honestly the nicest person I ever met.” He turned his hand over to grasp hers. “I suppose I should be glad the truth is out, no matter how awful it is to know. That Tywin Lannister is finally paying at least somewhat for ruining her life.”

“She was very brave,” Brienne said. “She did it to help Jaime, you know. Not for herself.”

Barristan gave her hand a final squeeze and let it go as one of the attendants came over to hover. “That does sound very much like the Elia I remember. Are you here to tell us that we’re boarding, miss?”

“Yes,” the flight attendant said. 

“Since I’m travelling light, perhaps you’ll allow me to assist you with your burdens,” Barristan said to Brienne, and so she walked to the departure gate with _Barristan Selmy_ carrying her bag. _So this is my life, now. _

They were both in first class, so once the safety demonstration was over, Brienne turned around to ask him “What takes you to Highgarden?”

“Pickled snake,” he said with a smile. “Apparently the Essosi can’t get enough of my feigned enthusiasm.”

“Does it taste awful?” Brienne asked sympathetically.

Barristan chuckled. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been a vegetarian for decades. They make up a special snake-shaped tofu for me to munch.”

_Well, I suppose it’s not any more dishonest than Jaime pretending he knows enough about non-dry-clean-only clothes to have an opinion on washing machines. _“Jaime’s agent wants me to do something with the vegetable association. An ambassador. It sort of got pushed to the back-burner with … everything.”

“You should do it,” Barristan said, surprising her. “I mean, where’s the harm? If you’re unsuccessful, people aren’t going to buy _fewer_ vegetable. And if you’re successful, they’ll just be more healthy.”

“If I do it …” Brienne hesitated. _Gods be good, I don’t believe I’m about to say this_, but apparently she was, because the words came out of her mouth. “They want me to do cooking lessons, on the weirnet. Do you have a favourite recipe you’d like to show off?”

Barristan smiled. “Cooking with the Blue Knight? You should do a whole series. Me, Arthur, that young Garlan Tyrell. The Stark boy. Of course I’d do it. You just can’t mention that I don’t eat pickled snake on camera.”

“I won’t,” Brienne promised, smiling. 


	135. Ravens XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravens (and whispers) on various people's phones

13:22 B Tarth: _sorry to bother you but you did say to raven you if I needed advice_

13:23 B Tarth: _sorry this is Brienne Tarth. _

13:50 Arthur D: _you’re not bothering me in the least. How can I help?_

13:56 B Tarth: _I’m getting something dreadfully wrong and Olenna won’t tell me what_

14:12 Arthur D: _it’s not like the Queen of Thorns to not be extremely specific. _

14:15 B Tarth: _she just says I’m doing fine. Jaime does as well. _

14:24 Arthur D: _then you are doing fine._

14:30 B Tarth: _No today she stopped shooting at lunch when we had the whole day scheduled. She’s just being nice._

14:41 Arthur D: _I can tell you that if there is one thing Olenna is incapable of doing, it’s being nice. Polite, yes. But if she’s not telling you that you’re stuffing up either politely or otherwise, you’re not stuffing up. _

14:45 B Tarth: _then why cancel the rest of the day?_

14:52 Arthur D: _do you want me to see wha I can find out?_

15:03 B Tarth: _I would appreciate it. _

15:04 B Tarth: _please tell me the truth if it’s bad_

* * *

15:12 Dawnstar: _How’s Oathkeeper doing?_

16:02 Queen of Thorns: _young man, if you’re not able to offer me a life-sized dragon, I don’t have time to tell you_

16:07 Dawnstar: _CGI troubles?_

18:22 Queen of Thorns: _yes. tell me again why it was such a good idea to agree to let Jaime Lannister anywhere near a script_

* * *

18:23 Dawnstar: _it’s nothing to do with you. it’s the CGI_

18:24 Blue Knight: _really? _

18:26 Dawnstar: _so I gather from her grace. She wasn’t specific but I’m guessing that whatever you were filming today involved a dragon?_

18:34 Blue Knight: _yes the Blue Knight and Oathkeeper fight it_

18:36 Dawnstar: _together?_

18:42 Blue Knight: _yes_

18:46 Dawnstar: _no wonder Olenna is tearing her hair out_

18:50 Blue Knight: _I don’t understand_

18:59 Dawnstar: _when they do CGI the basically make the computer remove all the green or whatever colour and stick in the images they draw, for every frame_

19:02 Dawnstar: _so if you were sitting on a saddle on a big green barrel in front of a big green screen, they could draw the horse and the background of ancient Oldtown or whatever they wanted. _

19:03 Dawnstar: _but if you were just standing there with your legs apart pretending there was a saddle, when they did the replacement your other leg would show, because it’s not green_

19:05 Dawnstar: _they can manually erase things – like if someone leaves a coffee cup or a water-bottle on set and it ends up in a shot – but for anything large, especially if it’s moving, it’s time-consuming and the results are variable_

19:07 Dawnstar: _so if you and Jaime are both fighting the same dragon, and there’s no dragon, there’s going to be a lot of shots where one of you should be hidden, or part of you hidden, by the imaginary dragon. Follow?_

19:10 Blue Knight: _yes_

19:12 Dawnstar: _but there’s no dragon to hide you, which is I bet Olenna’s problem. _

19:14 Blue Knight: _I see. Should I suggest that Goldenhand fights the dragon by himself?_

19:16 Dawnstar: _I suspect there’d be the same problem, only less of it. But it’s Olenna’s call, and Jaime’s. _

19:22 Blue Knight: _thank you_

19:29 Dawnstar: _happy to help. How are things otherwise? I saw on Ravengram that your kitten is increasingly cat-sized._

19:33 Blue Knight: _he is. He keeps Tess in line. Everything’s fine, I guess. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing but everyone says the film is going well. I did ruin a take a couple of days ago._

19:26 Dawnstar: _we all ruin takes every now and then. I farted loudly right in the middle of the tense stand-off before the Tower of Joy in The Magnificent 7. And then everyone got the giggles for the next 18 takes. _

19:30 Blue Knight: _it wasn’t my take. Jaime took me on set to watch Jeor Mormont’s death scene and I started crying. Noisy crying._

19:32 Dawnstar: _well he’s quite the actor. Who does he play and how does he die?_

19:36 Blue Knight: _he plays the Bear and he dies saving the Dragon Queen’s life. Everyone thinks she’s the Last Hero at that point, you see. He was very nice about it, but I was horribly embarrassed. _

19:38 Dawnstar: _he would have taken it as a compliment, especially if he was filming on green as well. I made a camera operator literally wet his pants with fear on The Mystery Knight and I still consider it my greatest acting achievement. _

20:02 Blue Knight: _Which scene?_

20:06 Dawnstar: _the fight in the sept. Stannis wanted me to charge right at the camera, so I charged right at the camera. _

20:08 Blue Knight: _the poor man. _

20:12 Dawnstar: _he has a photo commemorating the moment prominently displayed in our foyer, I feel he’s recovered from the trauma. _

20:14 Blue Knight: _Your foyer?_

20:16 Blue Knight: _I didn’t know you had a partner?_

20:18 Dawnstar: _not good for the action-hero brand, certainly not back then. _

20:20 Blue Knight: _you must bring him to our cloaking, when it finally happens. I’d like to meet him. _

20:24 Dawnstar: _he says only if you promise not to break his arm_

20:27 Blue Knight: _I’m terribly sorry about that._

20:27 Blue Knight: _how is your arm? Does it still hurt_

20:32 Dawnstar: _only when I laugh._

* * *

Thapphireth: _did you know Arthur Dayne is gay_

Leo: _7 hells wench you gave me heart failure I thought something was really wrong or it was father orsomething_

Thapphireth: _sorry, no, nothing wrong. just trying to be discrete _

Leo: _wench not really much need it’s an open secret. I think it was prbly a secret secret back in the day but even Baelish wdn’t be able to get much mileage in this day and age with an expose about Arthur’s long and happy relationship with a man who adores him. _

Leo: _they’re the most boring couple in the Seven Kingdoms. Lew packs his lunch for him. Arthur buys him flowers every Friday. _

Thapphireth: _not an open enough secret for Arthur to take him to Dorne for the movie_

Leo: _wench, when we’ve been together for as long as Arthur and Lew you won’t want to follow me from location to location either_

Thapphireth: _I will_

Leo: _you won’t_

Thapphireth: _I will though_

Leo: _wench gtg qot is on a rampage_

* * *

06:21 Queen of Thorns: _Doran, and if you hold this over my head I will find a creative way to make you suffer, but I need your help_

06:28 Myself: _can I at least make you beg?_

06:29 Queen of Thorns: _I bend my arthritic knees and grovel before you_

06:32 Myself: _give me a moment, I’m enjoying the afterglow. _

06:35 Queen of Thorns: _it’s Oathkeeper. It could be good. Really good, and I’m not just saying that to make you insecure about Once Upon a Time in Dorne. _

06:35 Queen of Thorns: _although you should be._

06:36 Queen of Thorns: _also if it’s really good Tywin Lannister will choke on his own bile. _

06:37 Myself: _go on._

06:38 Queen of Thorns: _it pains me to admit it, but Lemonwood’s CGI facility is better than mine. And I have a dragon problem. _

06:41 Myself: _can I have a co-directing credit?_

06:42 Queen of Thorns: _don’t be absurd. But Lemonwood will get full credit for the CGI work, all of it, even what we do at Highgarden, and I’ll thank you personally in my Iron Thrones acceptance speech. _

06:48 Myself: _confident, aren’t we?_

06:55 Queen of Thorns: _justifiably. Why hasn’t Jaime Lannister had more work over the years? Why didn’t someone suggest he move behind the camera earlier? _

07:18 Myself: _Tywin. But you’re right. I was very glad I let his new agent talk me into casting him for OUATID, even if I did mostly do it to spite his father. His death scene made my boom operator cry. _

07:22 Queen of Thorns: _I can’t kill him in Oathkeeper, unfortunately, he has creative control. Although he doesn’t seem to understand what that means. _

07:23 Queen of Thorns: _and don’t tell him. The man has more ideas than my granddaughter has handbags. More ideas than your daughter has shoes. _

07:38 Myself: _I feel your pain_

07:38 Myself: _I mean, I enjoy your pain. _

07:42 Queen of Thorns: _so if I raven you the relevant scenes, how long will it take you to give me a quote?_

07:45 Myself: _if it’s in the interests of making Tywin Lannister suffer, I’ll put it as my highest priority. Two days?_

07:56 Queen of Thorns: _thank you._

08:17 Queen of Thorns: _and do give your brother my best wishes. _

* * *

11:12 B Tarth: _Dad I’m sorry I can’t get home this weekend after all. I have to go to Dorne_

11:14 Dad: _That’s alright. I was looking forward to seeing you and Jaime but I understand_

11:16 Dad: _you’re both well? _

11:22 B Tarth: _yes. Tired. I never knew movies were such hard work. I thought it was all swanning around and actors were too lazy to get real jobs but it’s 12 or even 18 hours a day and a lot of it is really hard work. _

11:38 Dad: _you’ve never been afraid of hard work, though, sweetling._

11:55 B Tarth: _I’m more afraid of messing it up somehow. _

12:04 Dad: _that’s because you’re so responsible. You’ve always been like that. You were never afraid of trying something new because you were bad at it, but you were always scared of letting people down even at something you were good at. _

12:06 Dad: _It’s one of the things I’m most proud of in you, sweetling, but don’t let it make you unhappy. _

12:10 B Tarth: _I won’t._

12:11 B Tarth: _thanks dad_

12:46 Dad: _please send me more pictures of Tess and Leo. _

* * *

14:16 Me: _hey can you get the whole cloaking thing happening again? and how long?_

14:55 Little Bro: _on what scale?_

14:56 Me: _full scale, B is fine with it now. _

15:11 Little Bro: _when is Oathkeeper coming out?_

15:12 Me: _not until end of next year I expect, prime Iron Thrones time, why?_

15:33 Little Bro: _wondering if I can time your cloaking to add to the buzz_

15:34 Me: _I’m not waiting 12 months tyrion_

15:35 Me: _we’ll elope to the isle of faces instead_

16:03 Little Bro: _no don’t do that. Leave it with me. A lot of your guests will need plenty of notice._

16:04 Me: _k and can you pls make sureit’s amazing for brienne. _

16:22 Little Bro: _noted. Oh and Samwell Tarly should be getting a letter from the RedLion charitable association, offering him a grant to fund his residency. _

16:23 Me: _RedLion hahahahahahahahaha_

16:24 Me: _father wd be rolling in his grave if we were lucky enough to be orphans_

16:43 Little Bro: _give me a few more weeks and he will at least be rolling in his cell. _

* * *

11:14 Barry: _I hope you don’t mind, but I asked your brother for your number. I wanted to tell you that I have even greater admiration for you now than I did when we worked together, and I admired you greatly then. _

11:38 Elia: _I don’t mind. He asked me, and I said to tell you. I’m sorry that I never wrote back to you. _

11:40 Barry: _don’t be. I understand why you couldn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t know and couldn’t protect you. _

11:47 Elia: _oh Barry I know you would have if you could. _

11:49 Elia: _I just wish there was a way to go back to Volantis._

11:52 Barry: _we’ll always have Pentos. _

11:53 Elia: _here’s looking at you kid. _

11:56 Barry: _if I came to Sunspear, would you be able to see me? Say no without feeling bad if not._

12:08 Elia: _yes. _

12:12 Elia: _I’d like that, Barry. _

12:16 Barry: _I’ll be on the next available flight. _

* * *

09:22 C: _Jaime, they finally let me out of Maegor’s_

09:33 C: _I’ve stopped drinking, I’m better_

09:34 C: _but Stannis won’t let me see my children. _

09:37 C: _Jaime please you have to help me_

09:38 C: _I need you now as I have never needed you before_

09:42 C: _I love you, Jaime, I love you, I love you. _

09:43 C: _please call me. Call me at once. _

23:04 C: _Jaime you know I can see the read receipts right?_


	136. Jaime LI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More filming ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to SeeThemFlying for reading this and reassuring me it that wasn’t complete nonsense

Feeling like a much older man, Jaime tottered through the door of the hotel suite. “Wench.”

Brienne looked up from the pages she was reading. “Jaime.” Then her forehead creased in concern. “What’s wrong, are you hurt?”

“I have bruises on my bruises,” Jaime said.

Brienne scrambled to her feet, dislodging both Leo and Tess from her stomach and her legs respectively. The two animals shook themselves and then curled up together under the coffee table. “Oh, you poor thing. Let me run you a bath.”

A _cold_ bath, with ice cubes, Jaime was unhappy to discover. “Wench …”

“It will help,” she said sternly, so Jaime obediently lowered himself into the frigid water.

“I thought I’d left freezing my balls off in the North,” he complained.

“What on earth happened?” Brienne inspected his red-purple arm and side. 

“Unexpected ice spider was unexpected,” Jaime told her.

Brienne frowned. “I should have been there.”

“Wench, you should absolutely not have been there. The whole day was nothing but my shots, and this is the first day you’ve had off in … I’ve lost track of the weeks.”

“But you got hurt!”

“And I would have gotten hurt even if you’d been there, the mechanical gizmo jammed and then snapped and the whole side spun round and hit me. There was nothing you could have done, even if you’d been right there.” He grinned at her. “But on the bright side, I’m quietly confident Olenna got an _excellent_ take of my entirely genuine surprise and dismay. Wench, I’m really cold. Can I get out now?”

She checked her watch. “Two more minutes.” 

Jaime endured two more minutes and then let her pull him out of the bath, towel him dry, and rub a foul-smelling liniment on his bruises – so foul-smelling, in fact, that Tess took herself off to the far side of the room at the first whiff, and this was a dog who’d laid rotting roadkill on his trailer steps in Winterfell the one time she’d managed to escape at night. Jaime tried to breathe through his mouth and not his nose as Brienne wrapped him in a hotel robe, and put up only the mildest of protests when Brienne instructed room service to send someone out for Merryweathers,_ no, Merryweather’s _style_ won’t do, actual Merryweathers, two burgers with everything, two large fries, one large onion rings, oh, and a serve of their fried chicken. No, a large serve. _She glanced at Jaime, her eyes crinkling at the corners. _And a large green house salad for my husband. Thank you._

So he ate Brienne’s burger and Brienne’s fries and Brienne’s chicken, and ignored his salad, and enjoyed her fussing over his bruises every fifteen minutes until his eyes began to close half-way through whatever episode of _Sunspear Vice_ they were up to this time. And then he enjoyed her chivvying him into bed and wrapping herself around him, at least for the three heartbeats he managed to stay awake for before dropping into the bottomless pit of sound and exhausted sleep.

In the morning, Brienne insisted on coming to the studio with him, which Jaime had halfway expected. What he _hadn’t _expected was that Olenna would agree to Brienne’s firm insistence that she personally check every part of Lemonwood Studio’s mechanical devices before Jaime set foot on set. _Wench, what do you know about mechanical spiders?_ he whispered to her, and _Can they be more complicated than boats?_ Brienne retorted.

_Well, probably_, Jaime thought, but then, he didn’t know much about boats and the fact that something heavy enough to sink could stay afloat with a whole cargo on it suggested they were at least as complex as airplanes, and airplanes were _definitely_ more complicated than anything Doran Martell’s CGI wizards could produce, so alright, his wench had a point. Certainly nothing else malfunctioned for the rest of his solo fight against the ice spiders, or indeed during the scene when the Blue Knight came to Goldenhand’s rescue.

_I swore an oath to keep you safe_, she should have said, but the lines for the scene were different. “Your sword and shield,” she said instead, extending her hand, and Jaime let her pull him up to a brief, desperate kiss before the horn sounded to end the scene.

The fight with the dragon was a lot more demanding. Several stuntmen in head-to-toe green outfits that looked really far too much like condoms for the security of Jaime’s composure were on hand to assist the mechanical contraption’s movements. Jaime dodged the giant green blob of foam that was the dragon’s head, jumped over a thick green roll of felt that was standing in for a dragon’s paw, dived and rolled to avoid imaginary dragon fire. It was the most intense green screen work he’d ever done – well, it was the biggest role he’d ever had – and he was impressed all over again by Brienne’s tireless stamina. He darted and dodged around the ‘dragon’s’ ‘head’ while Brienne hacked at its ‘tail’, working her way up until she was in position to plunge her prop sword through the googly eye glued to her mark.

The ‘dragon’s’ ‘head’ collapsed on Jaime, and Brienne stumbled over to him. “No,” she cried, dragging at the foam blob. “No, no –”

Jaime counted, opened his eyes on cue, and smiled up at her. “I knew you’d win. Not even a dragon can defeat the Blue Knight.” Brienne burst into tears, which was an acting choice Jaime hadn’t expected from her, and flung her arms around him. After a moment of her soaking his shoulder with tears, he realised that it _wasn’t_ an acting choice. “I need a cut,” he called to Olenna.

“Keep rolling,” Olenna said instead.

Well, alright, fuck the Queen of Thorns and fuck the whole film if it came to it. Jaime sat up and wrapped his arms around Brienne and murmured reassurance. “It’s alright, I’m alright, it’s just a stupid film, I’m fine, I’m fine …” Brienne clung to him and sobbed. Jaime glared over her shoulder at Olenna, trying to convey _fucking cut the fucking scene_ with the power of his brain alone. Eventually she got the message and called _cut_ and Jaime was free to hold Brienne close and tell her over and over again that it was just a film, he was fine, he’d taken a rehearsed fall and he wasn’t even mildly bruised.

“Jaime, it’s a _dragon_,” Brienne sobbed.

“No, sweetling, no, it’s a big blob of foam, little Lyanna could lift it over her head. Hush, hush. I’m fine, you’re fine.”

She sniffed. “She would have been so scared.”

“Yes, she would.” Jaime carded his fingers through her hair. “But you don’t need to be. I’m fine, you see? I’m perfectly fine.”

Brienne managed to stop crying after a while, but Jaime still insisted to Olenna that they have an unscheduled rest day the day after. He took Brienne back to their hotel suite and ordered YiTish beef and lemon pigeon from room service and fed Tess and Leo scraps from his plate until Brienne was enough herself again to scold him. They watched _Sunspear Vice_ until Jaime’s eyes were crossing at Arseface Oakbrain’s idiocy, and in the morning he took her on a tour of the reconstruction of Planky Town. The floating village was eye-wateringly artificial, but the costumed staff were teenage drama students quite clearly hoping that the job would lead to something more, so Jaime occupied himself giving them tips on the best way to hold a spear while Brienne terrified their docent by knowing more than anyone could reasonably be expected to know about third century trading routes. When they left the young students were giving a passible impersonation of a pole-arm cohort and the docent looked utterly relived.

They had lunch at Lemonwood’s best restaurant with Oberyn and Ellaria, spent the afternoon lounging in their hotel suite reading, walked Tess until even _her_ boundless enthusiasm for exercise was flagging and went to bed early. Brienne was completely back to normal when they were back on set the next day to film the frantic flight through a burning Winterfell in order to reach the crypts. The scenes in the crypts themselves were already in the can from location shooting and they’d done the lead-up to the fight with the dragon in a damp and chilly cave an hour’s drive west of Castle Cerwyn with a green screen outside the entrance so glimpses of the dragon could be included.

After her reaction to Jeor Mormont’s death scene, Brienne refused to come to the set the day Daenerys and Robb filmed the Dragon Queen’s rescue of the Young Wolf and her death in his arms, but Jaime wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Daenerys was a little wooden, for his personal taste, but under Olenna’s direction that woodenness turned to the hard-won reserve of a young woman thrust into a position of power she wasn’t prepared for. _And Robb really is excellent,_ Jaime congratulated himself as the young Stark clutched the dying Dragon Queen, repeating _but you’re the one who _saves_ us, _you’re_ the one who saves us_ with a slowly mounting horror as the realisation dawned that _he_ was the prophesied Last Hero.

Then it was back to Highgarden for the last of the shoot. The farewell with Rose and She Wolf had been filmed weeks earlier, on the soundstage dressed like the Winterfell set, Margaery collapsing in shock so convincingly Jaime had almost called for Sam Tarly before Olenna ordered _cut and wrap_ and Margaery bounced up and went back to talking about her next film with Sarella. 

Olenna had also already filmed Goldenhand’s return to the ruins of Winterfell on location – although in front of a screen, Catelyn Stark quite understandably not being willing to burn down part of her family home to provide the backdrop. _Still. _Jaime had always firmly believed that even if audiences didn’t notice when the snow was fake, it still subliminally detracted from their suspension of disbelief when the snowflakes didn’t melt on an actor’s skin and their breath didn’t steam in the air, and he was glad Olenna shared his conviction, despite the fact that it had been another cold day’s shooting. Margaery and Sarella had to do Rose and She Wolf’s reaction in the studio, since their characters would actually be _on_ the ruined wall, and Jaime was impressed all over again when Margaery gave Olenna eighteen different takes, from dignified resignation to abandoned grief.

Jaime and Robb had also already filmed the Young Wolf’s doomed walk to meet and join the Others in various parts of the Wolfswood, Jon tucked in behind the cameras so Ghost would behave. They’d had to do the final scene in that sequence in the studio in Highgarden, Olenna having decided she didn’t like any of Jaqen H'ghar’s versions of the Cold Gods. _Not that you haven’t done excellent work,_ she’d told him,_ but a human with makeup on is still going to look like a human. _So Jaime had four more days of shooting in which he had to be brave yet terrified of imaginary enemies and hopeful yet grieving for the young man beside him.

_I’ll take care of Rose_, he impulsively adlibbed as Robb turned away to take his last steps as a living man, as a human being, and Robb gave just a shadow of a smile. _She can take care of herself._

And that was a wrap for Jaime, although Brienne and Robb and Sarella and Margaery still had to shoot She Wolf’s first and incorrect explanation of the prophecy. Things having been going so smoothly up until then, the law of averages kicked in, and it took them three days to get it in the can. Sarella developed a mental block on the actual words of the prophecy and Olenna had to have a grip standing out of camera line holding up cardboard sheets with the words lettered out. _When summer ends and winter rules, when day ends and the Long Night falls, when fire meets ice, a hero will rise. A hero to drive back the darkness, but who will never leave it, a hero to bring back the summer but never to share it. _Then Margaery quite uncharacteristically started corpsing on her pregnant pause after _my love, if you tell her … _They’d just got past that hiccup when a light exploded and the set had to be cleared to get rid of the broken glass, and when they came back Robb messed up the line _I’ll sacrifice no unwilling lives to save my kingdom _so many times he – also uncharacteristically – kicked his prop chair in frustration. It promptly broke in half, and that was the end of _that_ day’s filming. The next day everyone was much more focused, right up until Sarella’s red wig came loose without her noticing it, and Olenna called a halt at two in the afternoon when it became apparent all four of her actors were not going to be able to get through a take without giggling that day.

_Right_, Olenna said the next morning. _We are going to do this, and get it right, and the first person who breaks character or forgets a line or flubs _anything_, Brienne will hit with her sword. Are we entirely clear?_

_I would never!_ Brienne protested, but the threat seemed to work. They finished the close shots and then ran through the scene three times in its entirety without any disasters. Brienne wasn’t called upon to do anything other than stand watchful and professionally composed, and Sarella, Margaery and Robb gave Olenna three different versions of the scene, ranging from quietly tense to loudly emotional.

And then Olenna said _cut, print. That’s a production wrap on Oathkeeper_ and the film was done.


	137. Brienne LV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Principal photography has wrapped ... but that's not all that goes into movie-making

The wrap party for _Oathkeeper_ was very loud, and very crowded, and surprisingly enjoyable. Brienne had expected to spend it wishing she could just quietly sneak away with Jaime, fly to Tarth and sleep for a week. Instead, she found herself comparing notes with Robb Stark on just _how_ much exercise Ghost’s offspring demanded, talking about sparring with Sandor and a couple of the stuntmen, and laughing at Margaery’s theatrical horror on learning that Brienne didn’t own a single handbag.

Somehow, famous people she’d never thought she would _meet_, let alone be friends with, were now just people she knew and liked. Daenerys Targaryen was absolutely fascinated to learn about Barth’s _Chronicle_, Sarella Sand wanted to know Brienne’s opinion on the different theories about the Queen in the North’s identity and Jeor Mormont – who’d flown to Highgarden specifically for the party – sought her out to show her videos on his phone of little Lyanna sparring with her instructor. Asha Greyjoy shared Brienne’s firm opinions on the roles for women in most action films and they agreed furiously with each other for half-an-hour before Olenna interrupted to tell Asha she should make her own films, if she felt that strongly about it, and that Brienne should feel free to consider Olenna’s home in Highgarden her own for the rest of the winter.

“What did she mean?” Brienne asked Jaime when they managed to find each other again in the throng.

“Well, wench, she wants me to stay on in Highgarden through the editing,” Jaime said. “But don’t worry, I won’t.”

“But Jaime, you absolutely should!” Brienne protested. “Olenna wouldn’t have asked you if she didn’t think it was important you be involved, and _Oathkeeper_ is too important not to make it perfect.”

He leaned up to kiss her. “But I don’t want to keep you from Tarth, and I don’t want to be apart from you either.”

“I can go home for a few days whenever I want,” Brienne said. “I mean, it’s not like _I_ know enough about film-making to be useful, now.”

“Mmm.” Jaime leaned his forehead against hers. “Olenna thinks she can be done in time to release it for this year’s Iron Thrones,” he admitted after a moment. “She’s only got four months, but she says it can be done. She is famous for being fast in post.” He smiled. “And I think she wants to make sure _Once Upon A Time In Dorne_ doesn’t get best picture.”

“Four months isn’t very long,” Brienne pointed out. “And Highgarden is lovely. And I can start doing that stuff for the vegetable people here, which I couldn’t on Tarth.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “And you really want to do it.”

“And I really want to do it,” Jaime agreed softly. “I mean, I’ve learned so much just watching Olenna direct. Getting a chance to see her take the film all the way through to release … wench, I might never get a chance like this again.”

“Then we winter in Highgarden,” Brienne said. “I can go to Tarth when they need me there for something that happens with the house, or to King’s Landing for the house there. You can take care of Tess and Leo when I’m away.”

“Let’s take Tess with us when we run tomorrow,” Jaime said. “The book says she’s big enough and if the Mother is merciful, it will at least tire her out some.” He leaned against her. “Wench, what I really want right now is for you to carry me off somewhere where we can watch a terrible movie in peace.”

“Which terrible movie?”

“Leyton the Librarian,” Jaime said promptly, and Brienne laughed. “But we can’t. We’re the stars.”

“_You’re_ the star,” Brienne corrected.

Jaime grinned. “Wench, you’re the lead. One of them. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“How can anyone pay attention when everything’s all out of order? And how can _I_ be the lead?”

He leaned in and kissed her. “Wench. _Oathkeeper_ is the story of how Goldenhand and the Blue Knight’s love saved each other and then they saved the world.”

“The Young Wolf saved the world!”

Jaime kissed her again. “Wait until you see the release print to be quite so definite about that. But give Robb his due, there’s not going to be a dry eye in the house when he sacrifices himself. And no-one will ever compare him to his father again. Ned Stark just became _Robb Stark’s dad_.” His phone squawked, and he let go of her long enough to dig it out. “Tyrion says my father’s just been arrested.”

“What for?”

Jaime typed, waited, and then read out, “Conspiracy to pervert the course of justice and reckless endangerment in the Crownlands, indecent assault in the Westerlands, indecent treatment of a minor in the North.”

Brienne bit her lip. “And how do you feel about that?”

Jaime looked up and grinned, his sharp, knife-edged grin, the one that hurt her heart to see. “Fucking relieved, to tell the truth. Like I don’t need to keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“He is still your father,” Brienne said gently.

“I’ve been a better and more caring father to Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen than he ever was to me and _considerably_ better than he was to Tyrion. And that’s saying something.” 

“Alright.” She drew him to her again and carded her fingers through his hair. “I’ll carry you off to watch bad movies in peace if you want me to, you know. I’ll tell everyone that I’ve … suddenly got my moonblood, or something.”

Jaime chuckled, his breath warm on her neck. “I know, wench. You’ll rescue me from all perils. You’re my Blue Knight, after all.”

She _did_ carry him off, not too much later, pleading exhaustion and a headache, and took him back to their hotel suite and to bed, where they both discovered enough energy to make the wrap party a poor alternative to the privacy of their bedroom. Afterwards, Jaime fell asleep almost immediately, as quickly and deeply as if he’d been felled by Wun-Wun’s hammer, but Brienne lay awake for hours despite how tired she felt. She couldn’t begin to imagine how Jaime felt towards Tywin – she couldn’t begin to imagine her own dad treating her the way Jaime had been treated by his father, let alone that he might commit the kinds of acts that Tywin seemed to have considered routine. _Jaime was so young when his mother died. _Her heart ached for that little boy, even more than for Tyrion, who had been born in death and so thoroughly rejected by his father. _Tyrion had Jaime, and Jaime has so much love … he must have always have had so much love, and he had Tyrion and no-one else to give it to._

She smoothed Jaime’s hair and kissed his temple until he stirred. “Mmph?”

“Let’s go to Tarth,” she whispered. “Not for the winter. Just for a few days. For Last Dark. Let’s both go to Tarth.”

“’kay,” Jaime mumbled, and subsided back into sleep.


	138. Jaime LII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarth ...

_Fuck, I forgot how much I love this place._ Jaime took a deep breath of the sea air. Only a few months since he’d last been on Tarth, and he’d entirely remembered that it was the one place in the Seven Kingdoms he’d choose over all others, but he hadn’t remembered just how _much_ he’d choose it. _Gods be good, if the Seven themselves came down and told me I had to choose between staying on Tarth for the rest of my days or never visiting again, I’d chose the former. _

_I could rusticate happily on Tarth_.

“Heel, Tess,” he called, and Tess bounded obediently to his side as he started to run back down to Evenfall.

Brienne had begged off their morning run, wanting to go out with her father on his boat. Neither Brienne nor Selwyn had suggested Jaime accompany them, which he was grateful for, because another morning spent breathing through his nose and swallowing back bile was not his idea of a good time.

When he reached the house, Tess dived straight into the water-bowl by the back door and then flopped on the back porch with a look at Jaime that said clearer that words _when I said I wanted exercise, I thought it would be a reasonable amount_. Jaime grinned at her and opened the back door.

The smell of something delicious told him that Brienne was at the stove even before he looked in that direction. “Wench. What fresh delicacies do you have for us today?”

Brienne cast him a smile over her shoulder. “Nothing fancy. Crayfish benedict.”

He crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Your definition of fancy and the definition of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms are a little different.”

She leaned back into his embrace, gaze still on her cooking. “Did you have a good run?”

“An excellent run. Did you have a good … I was going to say sail, but it’s a boat with a motor.”

“We did.” Brienne flipped something in the pan. “Dad got a whole pailful of whiting, which are in the freezer for the day after tomorrow, and an absolute whopper of a tunny, which is earmarked for the firepit.” She turned her head to smile at him. “And this afternoon I’m going to go pick seaweed for the salads.”

Jaime snorted. “I don’t know whether you’re joking or just part of the Greater Seaweed Conspiracy.”

“Well, both,” Brienne said serenely. “And you have … approximate six minutes for a shower before breakfast is on the table.”

Jaime was washed, dried, dressed, and at the kitchen table well before Brienne’s deadline. He managed to not take seconds until Brienne and her father had both had them, but it was a hard-won battle in which his self-control only narrowly defeated his tastebuds.

“Jaime, I hesitate to impose,” Selwyn said, when they were all mopping up the last traces of sauce from their plates. “But I was wondering if you might be free to give me a hand this afternoon.”

“I am absolutely free,” Jaime said. “Hand with what?”

“Finishing off the Last Dark Boat.”

Jaime swallowed hard. “Yes. Of course. It would be an honour.”

So he found himself down on the shaly shore of Evenfall Bay, sanding the sides of a rowboat to Selwyn’s exacting instructions. It was reasonably easy work, not much more complicated than cleaning his armour. He could even manage it with his right hand, at least for a while.

“Brienne said that Tywin was arrested,” Selwyn said after a while.

“He deserves it,” Jaime said shortly, sanding harder.

“Maybe.” Selwyn worked in silence for a moment. “Hard for me to say. One thing I learned in law enforcement, things are never as clear as you’d like them to be.”

Jaime scowled at the side of the boat. “Things are pretty clear this time, Selwyn. I was there for at least part of it.”

“I gathered.” Sandpaper rasped on wood. “That was a bad thing that happened.”

“Yes,” Jaime said tightly, scrubbing the pine. “And if I’d had enough courage to say so at the time, at least a few of those women would have been spared.” _But I was too craven. _

“He was your _father_,” Selwyn said firmly. “And you were a boy.”

“Boys younger than I was have had the courage to serve and die in wars,” Jaime shot back. “I couldn’t even tell the truth.” He folded the sandpaper again and attacked the side of the boat. “And I must have known on some level that the cover-up was criminal. My father always said that dragons talk and lions roar, and between the two a Lannister can get whatever they want. _Of course_ he paid bribes.”

“Goodson.” Selwyn heaved himself to his feet and came around the boat. He crouched down beside Jaime and put a hand on his shoulder. “You killed a man. You had no choice, it wasn’t your fault, but you took a life, and from what I’ve read, it wasn’t really the fault of the man you killed, either. No-one turns around from that and makes all the right decisions in the next little while. Or for a long time after, sometimes. Cut that seventeen-year-old boy some slack.”

The side of the boat and the sandpaper blurred in Jaime’s vision, and he blinked hard. “And the man of five and twenty, two and thirty?”

“Him too,” Selwyn said gently. “Him too, goodson, with his troubles and his burdens and his fears.”

The tears came, then. Jaime leaned against the side of the boat and wept until his throat ached, Selwyn sitting quietly beside him with an arm around his shoulders. “Shit, sorry,” he said when at last he could get himself under control. He swiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I’m usually less of a mess, I do promise you.”

Selwyn produced a handkerchief and offered it to Jaime. “I gather from Brienne you’ve both been putting in fairly long days. With that and everything else … things get on top of a person, from time to time. It’s nothing to be sorry for, or embarrassed about.” He smiled. “When Galladon was just a babe, and neither I nor his mother had had an uninterrupted night of sleep in months, I cried far harder than he ever could at the discovery we were out of cheese.”

Jaime took the handkerchief, mopped his face and blew his nose. “I just don’t want you to think I’m not up to taking care of Brienne.”

“Not for a minute,” Selwyn said. He rose to his feet and held out his hand to help Jaime up. “Now, I think we’ve done enough work on the boat to justify an ale each, don’t you?”

They had their ales, sitting on the porch with Tess at their feet, and then all three of them drove into Morne in Brienne’s big blue SUV for dinner and music at the _Safe Harbour_. Jaime ate fish and chips, leaned against Brienne’s shoulder listening to singers of varying degrees of talent, and felt Tarth working its usual magic on him. _You really were doing your best_, he told that long-gone boy who’d signed his name where Tywin Lannister had told him to, that young man clinging to his love of Cersei as a single fixed point in a life filled with the chaos of trying to balance being there for Tyrion and establishing some semblance of a career. _You really were doing your best._

When it was his turn at the microphone, Jaime gave them an unaccompanied version of the song the Mance had written for the _Oathkeeper_ theme, the rousing version that would accompany the final credits_, _and made sure to tell them at the end where it was from. _The story of Goldenhand the Just and the Blue Knight_, he said. Everyone knew that Brienne Tarth was the Blue Knight and cheered her until she was pink-cheeked and smiling, and wonder of wonders, let Jaime coax her up to take a bow.

The next day Jaime helped Brienne set up the bell tents at one end of the yard and then they drove to Dreamfyre point, where their house was at the foundations-and-frame stage, and walked Tess along the cliffs. In the afternoon he drove Brienne’s car to the ferry dock to meet Peck, who’d been charged with bringing certain supplies from the mainland for the next night’s party. He was slightly surprised to see Pia in the passenger seat, and then caught a glance between them that made it make a lot more sense.

“I hope you’re treating her well,” Jaime said quietly to Peck as they transferred the packed coolers from Jaime’s car to Brienne’s. Peck turned beet red, and nodded. “Good. Whether you’re with a woman you want to wed or one who’s just for a time, be as kind to them as you’d want them to be to you.” He clapped the lad on the shoulder and sent him back to his sweetheart and Jaime’s car.

“Jaime, what’s all this?” Brienne asked as he lugged the first of the coolers into Selwyn’s kitchen. 

“This one …” He set the cooler on the table and took off the top. “Fine steak from the Westerlands. Out in the car, a suckling pig for your firepit, and fruit from the glasshouses of the North and the orchards of Dorne and Essos.”

“Jaime!” Brienne said. “You shouldn’t have! We always have enough food.”

He put the top back on the cooler and leaned over it to kiss her. “You do, and very delicious I know it will be, but you did say last year that seafood isn’t a delicacy on Tarth, and you all deserve …” He shrugged. “Well, everything, but steak at the least.”

“Jaime …” Brienne said in the soft and tender way she had. “I have a surprise for you, as well.”

“If it’s seaweed, wench, I will eat two mouthfuls to show willing and no more.”

She smiled. “It’s not seaweed. Or merfolk. Let me help you carry the rest of your stuff in, and I’ll show you.”

Once the food was safely stowed away, Brienne took Jaime hand and led him out the back door and across the garden to the tents. “I can’t knock on canvas,” she called. “But do say if you’re not decent for guests.”

The tent flap was pushed open, and –

“Tyrion!” Jaime went to his knees to hug his brother. “What brings you here?”

Tyrion chuckled, returning the embrace. “What do you think, brother? Could it be my brother and my goodsister and the fact that this is the time of year that should be spent with family? We flew in an hour ago, and Brienne was kind enough to meet our seaplane.”

Jaime let him go. He sat back on his heels and looked up at Brienne, who was looking quite smug. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Only since you agreed to come for Last Dark,” Brienne said.

“Tyrion, bring them inside!” Shae called from inside the tent. “It’s your turn.”

“Oh, you’re not playing _the game_, are you?” Jaime asked Tyrion, and when his brother nodded, he stood up and took Brienne’s hand. “Run. Save yourself.”

Her fair brows drew together. “From what?”

“From tomorrow morning’s hangover.” Jaime grinned at her, and followed Tyrion into the tent.

Shae, Bronn, and a blonde woman with a soft, pretty face and a full figure were lounging on the floor, wine glasses in hand. Shae picked up the glass next to her and held it out to Tyrion. “Come on, my lion. Hurry up, so I can go on winning.”

“Patience, patience.” Tyrion took the glass and sat down. “Jaime, Brienne, this is Lollys, soon-to-be Lollys Stokeworth.”

“Delighted to meet you, and congratulations to you both,” Brienne said, and Jaime echoed the sentiments. “But I thought you were playing a game?”

“Sit.” Tyrion patted the floor. “Learn. Bronn, more glasses.”

Jaime sat down, drawing Brienne with him. “It’s Tyrion’s game. Shae is the only one who’s ever beaten him.”

“What are the rules?” she asked.

“One player makes a statement about another player,” Tyrion said, as Bronn poured two more glasses of wine and handed them to Jaime and Brienne. “About the past, not the present or the future, and it can’t be publicly available information, either. Saying _your father was Tywin Lannister,_ for example, doesn’t count. If the statement is true, the second player drinks. If the statement is false, the first player drinks. The last person conscious wins.”

Brienne glanced at her wine glass. “I do have a lot of work still to do today …”

“Change of rules,” Jaime said. “The last person to still have wine in their glass wins.”

Tyrion sighed. “Agreed. Bronn, refills all round. Now, my turn. I can’t ask Jaime, because that would be an unfair advantage. Brienne. You … were a champion swimmer at school.”

Brienne shook her head. “Rowing.”

“Drink, Tyrion,” Jaime said, and his brother did. “Brienne, that means you can ask the next question.”

“Gods be good,” she murmured. “Well, if it would be unfair for Tyrion to ask _you_, then it would be unfair for me to do so, as well. Umm. Bronn. You used to be in law enforcement.”

Bronn raised his glass and took a gulp. “Two years in the Westerlands before we came to a mutual parting of the ways.”

“So now you go again,” Tyrion said. “But not Bronn.”

“Umm. Tyrion. When you were a child, you were fascinated by dragons.”

Tyrion half-raised his glass. “If Jaime told you that, it doesn’t count, and _you_ have to drink.”

“I didn’t!” Jaime said.

Brienne shook her head. “He didn’t. But he knows the name of every dragon from every chronicle, so I thought, why would he?”

Tyrion drank. “Fair enough. Your turn again.”

“Lollys,” Brienne said. “You’re a – I mean, you _trained _as a nurse.”

“No!” Lollys said, smiling.

“Well, you sort of are a nurse, love,” Bronn said.

“I’m a dental hygienist,” Lollys said. “That’s not a nurse.”

“It’s a dental nurse.”

“It isn’t!”

“I’ll drink,” Brienne said quickly, and sipped from her glass.

“Lollys, your turn,” Shae said.

Lollys turned to Jaime. “Your favourite colour is purple!”

“Sweetheart, that’s not about the past –” Bronn started patiently.

“It’s fine,” Jaime said quickly. “And it’s wrong. My favourite colour is sapphire blue.” He leaned over to kiss Brienne’s pink cheek. “Shae. When you were a little girl, you had a _Florian and Jonquil _playset.”

Shae shook her head with a smile. “Wrong. Drink.”

Jaime drank. “_Theon and Jeyne?_”

“No. Lollys, your first crush was on Arthur Dayne.” Lollys drank, and Shae smiled. “Bronn, _your_ first crush was on Alyse Ladybright.”

Bronn shook his head. “My longest lasting, maybe, but not my first. My first crush was on the daughter of the fishmonger down the street.” He grinned. “I was six. She was nine.”

“Fine,” Shae said, and drank.

“Brienne,” Bronn said. “You broke someone’s nose before you finished school.”

Brienne sipped her wine. “How did you know?”

Bronn grinned. “I know what teenage boys are like and I can tell you have a punch like the kick of a mule. I bet he deserved it. Or they did.”

“He did,” Brienne said. She found Jaime’s hand and wound her fingers through his.

“He also had no fucking taste,” Bronn said. “Tyrion. You were responsible for the Citadel hack that caused that scandal, back in the day.”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. “Define _responsible_.”

“I don’t think you did it yourself, you’re not that smart,” Bronn said. “But you were behind it.”

“Fine.” Tyrion drank.

“I fucking knew it!” Bronn crowed. “Lollys. When you were a little girl, you had a _Florian and Jonquil_ playset.”

“Disqualification!” Tyrion and Shae said in unison. “You can’t use someone else’s question,” Tyrion went on. “Bronn, drink. Lollys, your turn.”

“Oh, gods be good!” Lollys bit her lip. “Brienne, you always wanted to be an actor.”

Brienne shook her head. “Dad was a police officer, I wanted to be too, as long as I can remember. Um. Bronn. You left law enforcement because of an excessive force complaint.”

Bronn drank. “He had it coming.”

Brienne looked faintly disapproving, but didn’t say anything. “Tyrion. You _didn’t_ always want to be a lawyer.”

“You didn’t?” Jaime asked in surprise as Tyrion drank.

“No, dear brother, I wanted to be an actor like you.”

“Why didn’t you ever say?” Jaime asked.

Tyrion snorted. “As if there are roles for people who look like me.”

“Shae,” Brienne said next. “The film you hate – sorry _hated_ – the most was _Pretty Wench._”

Shae raised her glass. “I’d challenge that, but I appreciate it too much.”

Brienne smiled. “Lollys. You have an older sister.”

“How is your _wife_ winning the first time she plays?” Tyrion asked Jaime as Lollys drank.

Jaime grinned at him. “Little brother, were you not listening any of the times I sang her praises?”

“Sweetling?” Selwyn said from outside the tent. “I’m sorry to interrupt but the wood for the firepit is here, and I wouldn’t want to get the layering wrong.”

Brienne put down her glass and stood up. “Coming, dad.”

Jaime set his own glass aside as well. “Sorry, little brother. Duty calls.”


	139. Tyrion X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Last Dark party.

“I hope you don’t mind missing the big parties too much.” Tyrion wrapped his arm around Shae’s waist.

She leaned down to kiss him. “I’m just happy to be with you.”

“Even on Tarth?”

“It’s rural, but it’s not terrible,” Shae said. She picked up a strand of crabmeat from the plate in front of them. “And the food is excellent. Apart from the seaweed. Did you try it?”

“No.”

“Don’t,” Shae advised. She picked up another piece of crabmeat and fed it to him. “Why are they all eating the pig and the beef when there are oysters?”

“Scarcity drives up demand,” Tyrion told her. She frowned. “Why do men pay more to sleep with beautiful women than plain ones? Because scarcity drives up demand.”

“Stupidity drives up demand,” Shae said decisively. “Oysters taste better than steak, and ugly women fuck as well as pretty ones.”

Tyrion pulled her down to kiss her again. “But you are a very insightful and intelligent woman, who can see such things.”

Shae smiled against his lips. “I am.” She settled against him, head on his shoulder. “Your brother is also intelligent and insightful. He looks very happy.”

Tyrion followed her gaze. Jaime was on the square of grass being used as a dancefloor, capering back and forth with a fair-haired woman almost, but not quite, as tall as he was, grinning immensely. “He does. He always enjoyed folk-dancing.”

Shae laughed. “It isn’t the folk-dancing that’s making him happy, my lion.”

“I know. It’s his movie, and his delightful wife.” Tyrion picked up his wine glass. “I don’t think I ever remember him being happy, not since I was a child. Not like this.”

Shae appropriated the glass and took a sip. “Why didn’t you ever tell me what had happened to him? Do you not trust me to keep your secrets?”

“Until recently, I didn’t know, and then I only knew under legal privilege.” Tyrion took the glass back. “And you know, my love, that I trust you with all the secrets that are mine to tell.”

“I was so nervous when I met him, for the first time. The whore brought home to meet the family.”

Tyrion turned to frown at her. “Jaime didn’t make you feel like that, did he?”

Shae smiled. “He treated me as if I were a princess from a story, instead. I’m glad you found a way to help him.” She ruffled his hair. “You’re much happier, too. You used to get so gloomy when you’d seen him. Now you’re all smiles.”

“That was our charming cousin’s fault. Jaime was miserable in one way when she decided she needed him and miserable in a different way when she decided to push him away. It was hard to watch.”

“Do you think it’s true, what she ravened? About Tywin?”

Tyrion shrugged. “I doubt he did anything actually illegal to her. The risk of her telling her parents … Tygett wouldn’t have hesitated to report it, he and father always had a stormy relationship. But she was always around our house, and you can guess my father’s opinions about women’s roles and women’s value. He certainly didn’t _help_ her turn into a decent or useful human being, at the very least.” He paused. “She’s been ravening Jaime.”

“How do you know?” Shae straightened up to frown at him. “You’re not spying on him, are you?”

Tyrion shook his head. “She sent _me_ a series of very abusive ravens accusing me of poisoning him against her to such a degree he won’t reply.”

“He should block her number.”

Tyrion shrugged. “She’ll only get another phone. Or stalk him on Ravengram. Or both. She wants the children back, and she thinks Jaime can help her.”

“Can he?”

“No. It doesn’t matter who their genetic parents are, legally they’re the children of Robert and Cersei Baratheon. Jaime is their cousin once removed, as I am. His wishes don’t supersede those of Robert’s brothers.”

“And will she get them back?”

Tyrion grinned wolfishly at her. “I’m acting for Stannis Baratheon, what do you think?”

“But will the court not say that she’s their mother, and he’s only their uncle?”

“They were removed because they were in danger,” Tyrion said. He took another swallow of wine. “So, yes, the court may eventually say that she’s their mother, and he’s only their uncle, after she proves she can remain sober and provide a suitable environment for them. Which will take some time. Myrcella is already old enough to have the court give significant weight to her opinion, and the court would be unlikely to separate siblings. And Myrcella has revealed some things about what it was like to live with Joffrey that might make the court wonder if it was just the drinking that made Cersei unfit. By the time all that is untangled, when you take into account the inevitable delays that having such an extremely busy advocate as myself representing one party …” He shrugged again. “Odds are good that Myrcella will have come of age and Tommen will be old enough to choose for himself.” He smiled. “And I suspect that he will choose to stay with the uncle who lets him have all the kittens he wants.”

“That’s good.” Shae put her head back down on his shoulder. 

“Little brother!” Jaime dropped into a chair across from them, breathing hard. He mopped his face on his sleeve. “This is terrific, isn’t it?”

Tyrion looked around at the crowd of blonde giants and near-giants. The dancing was still going on. Despite the fact that they’d all been eating for hours, the tables were still piled high with food and Selwyn was tending something in the firepit. The whole merry scene was lit by tiny lanterns twinkling from the bare branches of the trees. All-in-all, it looked like a very sentimental film director’s idea of a happy family gathering. _Well, perhaps those directors had happy families, too._ “It is. I can see why you’re so fond of the place.” He found a half-full bottle among the empty ones scattered on the table, and refilled his glass. “Something further from our own childhood would be hard to imagine. Are you wintering here?”

Jaime poured himself a glass of water. “No. Olenna wants my input on the edits to _Oathkeeper_, so I’ll be in Highgarden, and so will Brienne, mostly.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “Really wants them, or politely asked while making it clear you didn’t need to do more than pop in twice a day?”

“Really wants them.” Jaime frowned. “Why would she want me to just drop by?”

“Because, brother mine, you have final creative control of the film,” Tyrion explained patiently. “Which I know you know, because I explained the contracts to you in great detail. You are Olenna’s boss. You are, on _Oathkeeper_, the final arbiter of _everything._”

Jaime shook his head. “I’ve learned a lot from Olenna, but not nearly enough to tell her what to do.”

“Which is probably why she’s willing to let you have actual input, rather than finding a way to present you with a finished product too late for you to interfere,” Tyrion pointed out. “But congratulations on that, anyway. It’s good to see you finding someone else to share your inexhaustible knowledge of camera angles in historical epics with.”

Brienne appeared from the throng, leaning over Jaime to wrap her arms around him. “Hello, you three. Do you have enough to eat?”

Jaime laughed, and turned to pull her down into his lap. “Wench, you could feed the army of the north _and_ the dragon with what’s here tonight. _Yes_, we have enough to eat.”

She smiled. “Just making sure.”

_She looks happy, as well_, Tyrion thought, watching her. _It was a good day the day old Walder Frey persuaded Jaime to take that role last year, although I wish the Brave Companions hadn’t happened. _What had Tywin said? _Something about Jaime needing the suffering to become the man he was meant to be. _Tyrion grinned to himself_. Well, father, he’s certainly the man he was meant to be now. Happy, married, well on his way to becoming a director, with a likely nomination for best supporting actor at next year’s Iron Thrones and, if everything he’s said about _Oathkeeper_ is true, possibly one for best lead the year after. _

_And truly free of you for the first time in his life and for all the rest of it, too._

“What are you smiling about?” Brienne asked him.

Tyrion raised his glass to her. “I was thinking about how happy my beautiful brother and my brave goodsister look, and congratulating myself on having good news for you. Evenfall Hall, three months from now, the Lannistarth cloaking. Your father assures me that by then it will be chilly but tolerable, the arrangements have been made, and Pod’s assiduous ravening of assorted assistants has confirmed that almost all of your guests will be available. And by then Evenfall will be properly finished and furnished, so although most of your guests will still need to sleep in Starpike’s finest, anyone who feels less hardy can rest in luxury.”

“Perfect,” Jaime said. “Olenna will probably be done with the film by then, so we can go to Pentos and on for as long as we like.”

“Finished?” Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “Already? You always gave me the impression it took months or even years to get a film through post-production. I mean _Man Without Honour_ didn’t come out until seven-and-twenty months after you finished principal photography.” 

Jaime shrugged. “She says she can do it. They started editing as soon as we started shooting, and Olenna’s determined to get it into contention for next year’s –” He checked his watch. “Yes, still next year’s, for an hour. Next year’s Iron Thrones.”

“Well, then you certainly _can’t_ go to Pentos or anywhere else for more than a quick weekend,” Tyrion said. “You’ll need to do all the talk-shows, all the magazines – Brienne as well – and be photographed looking happy and in love at every opportunity. And attend the premiere, of course.”

“We’re going to Pentos.” Jaime kissed Brienne’s cheek. “And Volantis.”

“For the waters,” Brienne said, smiling.

“_After_ the Iron Thrones ceremony,” Tyrion said firmly. “Brother mine, can you think of a finer _fuck you_ to father than you winning two Iron Thrones and your film getting Best Picture in the year when his whole legacy has turned from gold to shit?”

Jaime set his jaw mulishly. “I’m not giving up my honeymoon just to spite father. I spent too much of my life making decisions because of him – first to please him, then to anger him. I won’t do that any more.”

“Jaime.” Brienne ran her fingers gently through his hair. “Tyrion’s right. We can go later. The weather in Pentos will be better later, anyway. And I’m not saying that because it’s about Tywin, I’m saying it because _Oathkeeper_ deserves to win, and _you_ deserve to win. And if we have to do interviews and be photographed and all that to help that happen, we should.”

“You don’t mind?” Jaime asked her.

Brienne shook her head. “It doesn’t matter if we _never_ go to Pentos, Jaime.” She smiled down at him. “After all, we’ll always have Skagos.”


	140. Jaime LIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-production

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I am super sorry I have fallen behind in answering everyone’s comments. I admit I’m struggling a bit with the state of the world and how it’s impacting on my personal circumstances. Please keep commenting and giving me feedback (both good – and bad where needed) because it keeps me going.

Editing a film was hard work of a kind Jaime was completely unused to. Oh, he could spend twelve hours on set in an uncomfortable costume, in blazing heat or freezing cold, and still nail his last take as firmly as his first, and he could manage to memorise pages of dialogue even on productions where the script had changed so often he’d had completely new scenes to learn the night before shooting them.

But the steady, intense concentration on the tiniest details on screen, the meticulous attention to the smallest aspects of _everything_, was exhausting in a way he was entirely surprised by. Olenna’s stamina put him to shame. She was as sharply alert at the end of the day as at the beginning, while Jaime’s eyes were gritty and his head felt filled with sand.

The compensation, though, was that he got to see _Oathkeeper_ turn into a finished film, scene-by-scene and shot-by-shot.

Once he actually saw the editing suites at Highgarden Productions, Jaime understood both Olenna’s reputation for ferociously fast post-production and her confidence that she could take the film to launch-ready in time for the Iron Thrones.

Tywin Lannister had three rooms at Casterly Rock devoted to post-production, and he oversaw every aspect of it, at every second.

Olenna Tyrell had twenty-five edit suites, ten alone devoted to sound, each stuffed with staff, and she delegated ruthlessly. Nothing made it into the film until she’d seen, heard, and approved it, but if something didn’t match her vision, she simply sent it back with descriptions of what she wanted changed. With apparently perfect recall of every shot in every take in every scene, her instructions were detailed indeed. Things were also sped along by the fact that fully half of the CGI for the film was being done in Lemonwood by Doran Martell’s people.

At the end of every day, Jaime was too tired to do much more than walk Tess and then slump on the couch watching whatever Brienne chose for the evening. _I didn’t know it would be this much hard work! _he told her after the first week, and Brienne just smiled and ran her fingers through his hair. _That’s one of the first things I noticed about you, in Winterfell_, she said. _How surprisingly hard you worked. You’ll be fine_.

Brienne herself was busy – not as busy as Jaime, but still, busy. She filmed the trial weirnet episode for the Westeros Vegetable Growers Association, which Jaime was annoyed at having to miss, but Brienne kissed him and said _learn my lines, hit my marks, don’t look at the camera. _They watched it together when it came out on the WVGA’s RookTube channel, and it was quickly clear that Joy Hill was worth every stag Jaime was paying her and probably more. Brienne _liked_ kids and she liked cooking, that was the key to it. Jaime vaguely remembered mentioning that to Joy at some point and she’d plugged the information into her publicist’s mind and come up with this: Brienne supervising two teenage boys slicing potatoes while effortlessly also keeping an eye on the younger children washing lettuce and having a great time with the salad-spinners, and very evidently enjoying every minute.

Jaime himself didn’t like children, in general or in the abstract. Oh, Myrcella was fierce and brave and had the same sense of humour Jaime did, and he looked forward to seeing her as often as she’d allow. And Tommen was so sweet and kind it was hard to believe he was even distantly related to Cersei, and Jaime would go to war with anyone who even looked like spoiling that gentle thoughtfulness. _And of course I loved Tyrion when he was little, but who wouldn’t? _And, alright, Jaime had a lot of time for little Shireen Baratheon, who was smart enough to work out that the way to get Tommen to concentrate on his schoolwork was to link everything to the animals Tommen adored and more, apparently actually spent hours every week doing just that. And Lyanna Mormont was impressive and slightly terrifying, and the two Stark boys were good-natured and as fiercely devoted to their family as the older Starklings, so alright, add those three too.

But Brienne actually liked children because they were children, perhaps because she’d spent most of her life as an only child. She was in her element, blue eyes sparkling, completely forgetting to be self-conscious as she walked the children through making a simple, tasty pea-and-potato salad and talked about the importance of a healthy diet in age-appropriate turns. The children chorusing _thank you, Blue Knight!_ at the end was a little cheesy, but Brienne looked adorably pleased and embarrassed in equal measure when they did it.

“Wench, I hope you enjoyed it, because there’s no chance they won’t want you to make more,” he told her when it was over.

“It actually wasn’t as bad as I thought,” Brienne said. “Barristan Selmy said I should do a series with actors, too. _Cooking with the Blue Knight_. He said he’d come on.”

Jaime kissed her cheek. “Then you definitely should. Children all over the Seven Kingdoms and beyond will be pestering their parents for broccoli and spinach.” 

Brienne also had the Tyrell grandchildren for company when Jaime was working, which was good. Victaria was back from Yunkai, preparing for her role as a Freefolk spearwife in _Kissed By Fire_, and she and Brienne sparred daily in the Tyrell’s gym. _Fighting someone armed with a spear is a lot harder than I thought it would be_, Brienne said after the first day, displaying her bruises. _I might have to re-evaluate my opinion of Dornish military campaigns. _

_Come here and let me kiss them better,_ Jaime said with his best comical leer, and the subject of Dornish wars was tabled indefinitely.

Shopping with Margaery, talking history with Garlan, being asked by Willas to give her opinion on his latest script – it was fairly clear to Jaime that Olenna had made sure the Tyrells would close in around Brienne and make sure she wasn’t lonely. Which was nice, but it also made it clear to him that Olenna had entirely expected that he’d take their work in the editing suites seriously and put in the hours, and _that_ gave him an unexpected lump in his throat. 

Days became weeks and weeks became months. The weather grew warmer, and the streets of Highgarden were perfumed by the yellow roses that seemed to grow in every garden. And then one day Olenna came in with a weirstick and offered it to Jaime. 

“Final cut,” she said. “Take it home and watch it with your wife, and tell me what you both think.”

Jaime found he couldn’t quite go straight home. For a while, he walked about Highgarden, not sure if he was nervous or excited or both, fingering the weirstick in his pocket. _You were willing to leave the whole thing in Olenna’s hands,_ he argued with himself. _You trust her judgement. _

_But what if she’s ruined it_, a little voice whispered. _What if it’s terrible? What if it always was going to be terrible?_

Eventually he found himself outside Olenna’s mansion. He made himself go in, and upstairs to the suite of rooms she’d given him and Brienne during their stay. “Wench?”

“In here,” she said from the bedroom, and a moment later appeared at the door. “What’s wrong?”

He summoned up a smile and held up the weirstick. “Final cut. Watch it with me and hold my hand if it’s awful?”

“It won’t be awful,” Brienne said confidently. “You’d have noticed by now.”

Jaime shook his head. “I’ve only seen it scene-by-scene. And I’ve seen some terrible films composed of a series of excellent scenes in my time.”

Brienne took the weirstick from his hand. “I’ll find the laptop. And I’ll hold your hand no matter how bad or how good the film is.”

His apprehension only grew as Brienne fiddled with cables to get the laptop display mirrored on the big TV. “Maybe we should walk Tess first.”

“Tess and I got back from a run an hour ago,” Brienne said. She plugged the weirstick in, found the file, and started it. “Come on,” she said, sitting down on the couch. “You can hide behind me during the scary bits.”

“Or the bad bits,” Jaime said, sinking down beside her. “Wench, if this is awful –”

“Hush, it’s starting,” Brienne said serenely.

Olenna had gone for a cold open – literally, the very first image being the snow-covered Wolfswood. Footsteps crunched, and Brienne, Margaery and Sarella came into view, leading their horses. Jaime had seen the scene, of course, but he hadn’t know it would be the first. 

“We should start back,” the Blue Knight said. She was in armour, the only one who was – Sarella was still disguised as a maester, and Margaery was in practical riding leathers. “I mislike this.”

“They said the whole village was attacked,” Rose said. “We must learn the truth. My husband must know.”

“Here’s a body.” She Wolf crouched down and brushed snow away from the corpse of a young woman. “No marks that I can see. Perhaps she froze to death. Winter has come early and hard.”

And the corpse’s eyes snapped open, icy blue. Beside Jaime, Brienne gasped and clutched his hand. On screen, She Wolf leapt back – there were at least three takes when Sarella had gone flat on her back as she tried it, to Jaime’s certain knowledge – and the snow around the three women erupted with animated corpses. The horses reared and a stuntwoman in Rose’s costume fought to control them as the Blue Knight ripped her sword from its scabbard and thrust She Wolf behind her. “Ride for the castle!” she ordered, set her feet and raised her sword.

One of the few things that Jaime had ventured to disagree with Olenna on in the editing suites had been Brienne’s fights. _As few cuts as possible_, he insisted. _I know you have to have some, given that we didn’t actually decapitate or maim any of the extras. But the fights _work_. Show them off_.

And it _did_ work, Jaime could see all over again as he watched it. Sandor and Brienne had worked for hours with the extras, getting it right. The Blue Knight danced in the snow, her blade taking reaching hands and severing heads, dodging and back-stepping with all Brienne’s grace and skill on clear display. A long shot showed Rose and She Wolf losing the struggle to control the horses. She Wolf seized Rose’s hand. “Run!” More dead appeared beyond them, though, and Rose screamed as they stumbled back towards the Blue Knight. She Wolf drew a dagger from her belt. The Blue Knight was seconds away from being overwhelmed by sheer numbers –

A war-horn sounded. Hooves pounded in the snow, a close-up shot of the great shaggy fetlocks of – well, technically, of draught horses from the Brindlewood stud, but in the context of the scene and what the audience would expect, destriers or chargers. _Not that any sane man would ride them in a Northern winter. _The charge swept forward, trampling the dead beneath their hooves, the Blue Knight holding She Wolf and Rose in her arms, sheltering them from the horses.

The horses came to form a protective circle around the three women.

“Well met, ser,” the Blue Knight said, straightening. She took off her helmet. Jaime grinned, remembering how long it had taken to persuade Brienne to do that. _They’re on a battlefield, Jaime!_ and he’d answered _Yes but the audience needs to see your face. _

On the back of his horse – actually a completely different horse, on a completely different day – Goldenhand raised his visor. “Well met indeed,” he said, and the credits started.

“Fairly sure it isn’t awful,” Brienne said tenderly, and Jaime leaned against her shoulder and allowed himself to enjoy the film.


	141. Brienne LVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The film is finished, but the premiere and promotion still await.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to Wirette for feedback on the trailer section. All fuckups, of course, remain my own

“Wench? Are you here?”

Brienne snorted. “Where does he think I’d be?” she asked Tess, who was sprawled on the half-sanded floor of the kitchen of the as-yet-not-nearly-finished house Jaime had bought on the Hill of Rhaenys. Tess, now dog-sized if not yet Ghost-sized, rolled over onto her back in response. “In here!” Brienne called.

She heard Jaime drop something, and then his footsteps echoed on the wooden floor of the hallway and then he appeared in the doorway. “Isn’t there a machine to do that?”

“Jaime, this is oak from the Whispering Wood. You’d be a patch-faced fool to let a mechanical sander near it.”

“It just looks like a lot of work.”

Brienne sighed. “It _is_ a lot of work. Which is why I’ve been here all day.”

“Well, take a break,” Jaime said. He hoisted a paper bag. “I’ve brought dinner, _and_ the _Oathkeeper _trailer.”

Brienne abandoned her sand-paper with relief, stretched the knots out of her shoulders and neck, and accepted the insulated container from Jaime. “What did you get?”

“There’s a new Dothraki place near Sowbelly Square,” Jaime said, taking out his own food. “Not authentic, of course, because they have to use beef rather than horse.”

Brienne picked up her disposable fork and prodded at the meal. “And potatoes, apparently. Are potatoes Dothraki?”

Jaime shrugged. “The whole thing is called a Dothraki Snack Pack, so I suppose?”

Brienne took a cautious bite, and was pleasantly surprised. _Who would have thought beef and gravy over fries would be delicious?_ “Thank you. I’m sorry if I sounded cross, before. I know I was the one who said not to hire a carpenter to do the sanding.”

“Not too late,” Jaime said.

Brienne shrugged. “It’ll only take me one more day, and I’ll know it was done properly. How’s the trailer?”

Jaime grinned. “Great. Let me finish this and I’ll get my laptop and show you.” 

Tess came over to sit beside Jaime, eyes fixed on his food. Jaime picked up a piece of beef and gave it to her. Brienne sighed. “Jaime. That’s not good for her.”

“She’s the picture of health.” He forked up another bite. “Besides, the vet said the occasional mouthful wouldn’t hurt her, it was just bad to feed her on scraps all the time.”

“Your definition of _occasional_ and the vet’s might differ,” Brienne said dryly. “If we have children, I hope I’m not going to need to explain to you that ice-cream is not a breakfast food.”

“Never did Tyrion any harm,” Jaime said. He winked at her. “Well, it might have stunted his growth.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Jaime …”

He stuffed the last of his food in his mouth and set the container up on the counter. “’m ge’ ‘e ‘a’op.”

The second Jaime was out the room, Tess sat up, eyes trained on the scraps of Jaime’s dinner.

“Tess,” Brienne said warningly.

Tess looked at her, wagged her tail, and then bunched her hindquarters to spring.

Jaime came back in, carrying his laptop in one hand and his briefcase in the other. “Tess.” Tess dropped to her belly instantly and looked innocent. Jaime sat down between her and Brienne, put down his bag and rubbed Tess’s ears. “Good dog. We don’t eat food that’s on the counter.” He opened his laptop, hit a few keys and turned it so Brienne could see the screen. “Tell me what you think.”

Brienne leaned forward to see better. Snow, and a slow, eerie tune that it took her a moment to recognise as a variation on Mance’s theme. Then an instant’s blackness, changing to a snow-covered leg. The camera slowly panned up the body to the dead face –

And the eyes opened, cold blue, so suddenly Brienne jumped. A flash of the Blue Knight fighting the dead in defence of Rose and She Wolf – a flash of Goldenhand and the Young Wolf facing each other, clearly at odds – Rose, from the end of the film, clutching the Young Wolf with a despairing _my love –_ Brienne herself, telling Jaime _a hero to bring back the summer but never to share it _– Goldenhand saying to the Dragon Queen _Instead of trying to win the throne to save the kingdom, you should try to save the kingdom to win the throne._

A full second on Daenerys Targaryen’s face, shocked and vulnerable, and then a rapid sequence of images – Goldenhand fighting ice-spiders, a dragon flaming the undead, herself and Jaime hacking their way through risen corpses in a ruined Winterfell, the Young Wolf overwhelmed and about to fall to the Others, the Dragon Queen stern and determined on a dragon’s back –

Another flash of a black screen, and then herself and Jaime, in the courtyard of Winterfell. _I love the night, _he said, _since it’s the only time I can see the Evenstar._ And then she and Jaime against the dragon, Jaime riding the horse from the opening sequence, the Blue Knight racing up the stairs to the Winterfell ramparts, the Young Wolf swinging a sword, She Wolf wielding her dagger in the crypts, the Blue Knight and Goldenhand in a fierce kiss with dragonfire behind them –

A black screen again, and She Wolf’s sombre voice._ When summer ends and winter rules, when day ends and the Long Night falls, when fire meets ice … a hero will rise._

_Oathkeeper _blazed on the screen, the verticals made up of swords. _Coming soon. _

“Well,” Brienne said after a moment. “_I’d_ watch it.”

Jaime wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “And not just because I’m in it?”

She shook her head. “Although it’s not really the same as the movie.”

Jaime kissed her temple. “Trailers never are. For one thing, they don’t want to give away the big twist.”

“Will anyone understand what _Oathkeeper _means?”

“Probably not until they see the film,” Jaime said. “But that doesn’t matter. It’ll mean more when they realise it towards the end of act one.”

“When the Blue Knight tells the Young Wolf,” Brienne said. “Jaime, people won’t mind? That Oathkeeper is the Blue Knight’s sword and not Goldenhand’s?”

“Oh, they’ll mind,” he said cheerfully. “The weirnet of ice and fire will explode. Olenna will probably get death threats. Or at least, badly punctuated letters of protest.” He raised his right hand, rigid in a parody of Goldenhand’s prosthesis. “But there’s no way he could have used Oathkeeper with his left hand. Widow’s Wail is much more plausible. And besides, in the backstory, he gave her the sword to fulfill his knight’s oath to defend the innocent, that he couldn’t do because of his family. That’s why he called it Oathkeeper. That’s why she tries to give it back to him, now he’s finally doing what a knight should.”

“But that’s just the movie,” Brienne protested. “Everyone knows that Oathkeeper was Goldenhand’s sword, and he was _always_ the perfect knight …” 

“And if anyone gives me a hard time in an interview, I’ll just point out that it was his sword first, they lived happily every after and who knows, at some point they may well have swapped back,” Jaime said cheerfully. “All that matters is that the story’s plausible.” He leaned over and kissed her. “And it’s a good story.”

“When does the movie come out?”

“Five days after our cloaking, so I had Peck book us a sneaky dirty weekend in Pentos. Couldn’t get the honeymoon suite at the Red Temple Hotel, but dinner at _Illyrio’s_ is locked in and our suite _does_ have a view of the Sunrise Gate.”

Brienne smiled, and kissed him. “Sounds perfect.”

“We might always have Skagos, wench, but I’m determined we have Pentos as well.”


	142. Brienne LVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloaking, part the first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I just want to say I massively appreciate your comments and they’re keeping me going. And, you know, the nice stuff is awesome but don’t feel you can’t be critical as well!

“Wench, this is my Aunt Genna,” Jaime said, and Brienne turned around to find herself face-to-face with –

“Maester Genna,” she said, stunned.

“_Aunt_ _Genna_ is your maester?” Jaime looked equally stunned.

“Well, clearly, not anymore,” Genna said calmly. “Brienne, I’ll raven you a list of other maesters for you to consider. And don’t worry, I would never discuss any of my patients with anyone.” She pinched Jaime’s cheek. “Let alone my nephew. And Jaime, before you even consider becoming embarrassed, remember that I’ve known you since you were born and can remember you dancing around my garden naked as your name day.”

Jaime grinned. “Pics or it didn’t happen,” he said.

“For all you know, I do have pictures, just too much sense to Ravengram them,” Genna shot back. “Which could change. Brienne, I’ll see you at the cloaking. Jaime, you have –” she checked her watch. “Less than an hour to make yourself presentable, and unless you’ve improved significantly since your teenage years, that will barely be enough.”

“Yes, Aunt Genna,” Jaime said, but he lingered a moment as his aunt bustled away. “Wench, why didn’t you tell me your maester was Genna?”

“Why didn’t you tell me your Aunt Genna was a maester?” Brienne retorted. “It’s not exactly a rare name.” 

He smiled. “Fair.” He leaned up to kiss her. “I have to go get dressed. Will you be alright?”

Brienne nodded. “Sansa and Margaery and Jaqen are waiting for me.”

Jaime kissed her again. “See you soon, wench,” he said, and went.

Brienne went upstairs to her bedroom and submitted herself to Sansa, Margaery and Jaqen’s attentions. She still wasn’t sure she believed their assurances that the white gown Alerie Hightower had made was _the most perfect bride’s dress in history_, but she clung to the memory of Jaime’s promise he would always tell her if she looked ridiculous. _He said it looked good. He promised me it looked good._ Jaqen did her hair and her makeup, in the minimal way he knew she preferred, and then it was time.

Jaime and her father were waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Selwyn was wearing his one good suit, but Jaime had clearly had his tailor make him a suit for the occasion. It was the sort of thing a lot of people wore to watch tourneys, straddling the line between modern style and age of ice and fire fashion: gold brocade, with a high collar, more of a coat than a suit jacket. Brienne gathered up her skirts with shaking hands and tried to descend the stairs without tripping over her own feet.

Jaime bounded up the staircase to meet her half-way. “I’ve got you,” he said, and then whispered, “and you look amazing, by the way.”

Her pulse settled a little, although she could still feel her hands trembling. “So do you.”

His smile turned smug. “Traditionally it should have Lannister red as well as Lannister gold, but it would have clashed with the colours of Tarth. This, however, will look perfect. Still alright with the cameras?”

Brienne nodded as she negotiated the last few stairs. “So long as you hold my hand.”

“Wench, don’t worry. I’m going to need _extraordinary_ self-control to let go of you as long as the ceremony demands.”

“Sweetling,” Selwyn said, beaming at her. “You look wonderful.”

Brienne smiled up at him. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a necklace. Taking her hand, he put it in her palm and closed her fingers over it. “You don’t have to wear it. Tonight, or ever. But I think you should have it. I always planned to give it to you on your wedding day.”

Brienne opened her hand and stared at what she held, a thin chain of gold with a single sapphire hung from it. “Dad. Mum’s necklace? But don’t you want to keep it, to remember her by?”

“Sweetling.” Her father blinked hard. “How could I need anything more than you to do that?”

“Oh, Dad.” She unfastened it and put it around her neck, turning around. “Of course I want to wear it tonight.”

Jaime touched the sapphire where it rested between her collarbones. “Wench, you told me the Sapphire Isle didn’t have any sapphires.”

She smiled. “I’m wearing all the sapphires on Tarth right now,” she said, raising her hand to display her mermaid ring.

“Brienne’s mother was an Evenstar, for a time,” Selwyn said as he finished fastening the clasp. “She was one of the Morne Tarths. Turn around and let me see, sweetling.”

Brienne turned. “Does it look alright?”

“It suits you very well,” Selwyn said. “I’d give you a hug, but I don’t want to crush your dress.”

Brienne flung her arms around him. “Crush away.” Selwyn enveloped her in a bear-hug and she hugged him back tightly. “How could have been saving this for my wedding day, though? I mean, it’s not like I have an exactly successful romantic history. Or _any_ romantic history.”

Selwyn squeezed her once more and let her go. “I had faith that there were men in Westeros with sense.” 

“And thank the Seven I was the one who got to her first,” Jaime said cheerfully. He held out his hand. “Ready, wench?”

Brienne took his hand, and nodded. “Roll sound, roll camera.”

The rest of their escort was waiting for them by the front porch, Sandor again carrying the bag containing the heavy cloaks as lightly as if it were empty. “Clean up pretty well,” he said gruffly to Brienne.

She smiled at him in his clearly-brand-new, well-tailored suit. “So do you.”

“We’ll walk slowly,” Olenna decreed imperiously. “I refuse to be filmed trying to scamper, not at my age.”

Arthur Dayne offered her his arm. “Your grace, allow me.”

Olenna tucked her hand through his elbow. “Thank you, young man. Sandor, escort my granddaughter. Arianne, with Tyrion. Robb and Jeyne, just be the almost-newly-weds you are. Places, everyone!”

Jaime grinned at Brienne as he linked his arm through his aunt’s and reached out to take Brienne’s hand. “Roll sound.”

“I heard that, Jaime,” Olenna said sternly, although her smile spoiled the effect. “You’re not a director yet. Roll sound.” Brienne reached out and took her father’s hand on the other side to Jaime. “Roll camera. And action!”

They made a small, slow procession up the hill to Evenfall Hall. Tyrion took his duties as Arianne’s escort very seriously, holding his hand above his head to provide her with support as she negotiated the uneven grass in her stiletto heels. Sandor all but lifted Margaery off her feet as she stumbled, while Olenna paced slowly onwards at Arthur’s side.

The media cameras were limited to the first few yards, in a roped-off area enforced by several large and burly men. One of them nodded to Sandor as they passed, and he nodded back. Then they were past the steady lights of the video-cameras and the bright flashes of the paparazzi and into the gentle, sea-scented dark of a Tarth spring night.

“Lights,” Olenna ordered, and Arthur and Robb dug in their pockets and drew out –

“Jaime,” Brienne whispered. “They used those on the film.”

He grinned at her, and then leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Yellow-gel lanterns. How else will Varys’s little birds get their long-distance _paparazzi_ shots of this evening?”

The sea-breeze stirred Brienne’s hair and blew the silken folds of her gown against her legs as she walked over the soft green grass lit faintly golden by the lights Robb and Arthur carried, that cast a light like candles. She held tight to Jaime’s hand and hung on to her father’s arm and thanked the Seven that Alerie Hightower hadn’t put her in heels. The flashes of the paparazzi behind them dimmed, while ahead the soft glow of the illuminated Evenfall Hall grew stronger and stronger. 

Finally they reached the gates, and Brienne stopped with a gasp. Apart from the aisle leading to the doors, the courtyard was crowded with roses: blue winter roses from the north, fat golden roses from the Reach, the tightly furled white roses of the Stormlands and the dusky pink roses that grew so well in Dorne. “Jaime.”

“Is it alright?” he asked a little nervously. “It’s the colours of –”

Brienne turned and kissed him fiercely. “I love you, Jaime Lannister. And I love roses.”

He smiled, and kissed her again. “Good. To both.”

Brienne let go of her father’s arm to lean down and pluck a winter rose from the arrangement, and then, after a moment’s thought, one of blowsy yellow blooms as well –

“Oh, let me,” Robb Stark said, taking the stems from her. He added a white rose and a pink, twisted the stems together, chose a few more –

Jeyne put her hand on Brienne’s arm. “He’s very good at flower crowns,” she said with a small and slightly smug smile.

A moment later, Robb turned, a wreath of roses in his hands, blue and pink, yellow and white. “I’d offer to crown you the Queen of Love,” he said, “but I think that might not be my place.”

“It isn’t,” Jaime said firmly. He took the ring of roses from Robb, and turned to Brienne. “I haven’t won a tourney, but …”

Brienne bowed her head, blushing, and let Jaime place the crown of roses on her head. “I don’t look silly, do I?”

“Dear,” Olenna said firmly, “you look like a legend come to life.” She poked Robb Stark with one bony forefinger. “You have an eye, boy.”

“It’s time for the cloaks,” Margaery said. “Sandy?”

Sandor Clegane grunted, and put the bag down.

“Mind the grass, everyone,” Olenna said, not making a move to help as Margaery and Arianne struggled to lift the blue and pink Tarth cloak free from the bag. “Careful!”

“Yes, grandmama,” Margaery murmured. “Jeyne, can you get that edge – thanks.”

Brienne stood obediently still as the bride’s cloak was draped over her shoulders, Jeyne stretching up to fasten the clasps as Margaery and Arianne held it bunched up, clear of the grass. She glanced to her left to see Arthur doing the same service for Jaime with his cloak of red and gold as Robb and Sandor held it safely high.

He looked glorious, when they had finished, as if he had walked out of the age of the ice and fire, all gold brocade and family colours, with his long hair and his leonine beard. For an instant Brienne thought that he’d never looked more like Goldenhand, even when they were filming, and then he looked at her and grinned and he’d never looked more _Jaime_.

She smiled back, feeling the weight of the cloak of Tarth on her shoulders.

“Brienne,” Jaime’s aunt Genna – _maester _Genna – said. “How do you feel?”

“Nervous,” Brienne admitted. “Frightened.”

“Of what?”

“Of being looked at.”

Genna smiled, and clasped her hands. “And what’s the worst that could happen, if that was true?”

Brienne smiled down at her. “Nothing. Nothing bad would happen.”

“That’s right.” Genna reached up, pinched Brienne’s ear, and tugged her down to kiss her cheek. “Nothing bad will happen.” She lowered her voice, and whispered, “I’m so proud of you, dear.”

Brienne blinked hard. “Thank you.”

Genna let her go and went to take Jaime’s arm, as Selwyn offered his arm to Brienne.

“Alright.” Olenna picked up a pinch of Jaime’s cloak. “Shall we?”

“Wait,” Brienne said suddenly, surprising even herself. “Can we change sides?” There was a moment’s blank confusion, and she shook her head. “I mean. Dad and Genna, on the other side?”

“If it will get this show on the road, I am all in favour,” Olenna said. “Genna, Selwyn?”

Selwyn moved around to Brienne’s left, and Genna to Jaime’s right. Brienne reached out and grasped Jaime’s hand. “Alright,” she said. “I’m alright to do this, now.”

But as they climbed the steps together, Brienne felt her legs trembling. _I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t._ She could say it – her father would sweep her up and take her away – Jaime would understand. _I can’t, I just can’t …_

A chord of music came ebbing out of Evenfall Hall, just the right side of dissonant, and on its heels, a woman’s voice, deep and resonant, hovering between notes. _He is mine. I am his. _

Brienne felt the hair on her arms rise up.

Her father squeezed her hand. “Sweetling?”

_From this day, he is mine, and I am his_, the woman sang, just on the edge of dissonance. _From this day, I am hers, and she is mine._

The woman’s voice and the chords beneath it settled into her chest and lifted her up the stairs. She was barely aware of Arthur and Robb, Sandor and Tyrion, holding her cloak clear of the stone steps, only of Jaime’s hand in hers.

_From this day. From this day. _

“Jaime?” Brienne said. “Do you think the Blue Knight ever married?”

He glanced at her, eyebrows up. “Of course.” He gave a sudden grin. “Where do you think all the tall heroic fair-haired Tarths of Tarth came from, after all?” He squeezed her hand. “You’re not less the Blue Knight for being cloaked, wench.”

Brienne shook her head. “It’s not that. I just … I’d like for her to have had this. For her to have someone like you.”

“Wench,” Jaime said softly. He leaned in to kiss her, soft and slow and tender. “I promise you, she did.”

“But there’s no-one like you,” Brienne said. “There’s only you.”

“Wench,” Jaime said again. He leaned his forehead against hers. “There’s no-one like _us_. There’s only us.” He squeezed her hand again. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Brienne straightened up, and Jaime did too. “I am, Jaime. I’m alright.” 

Together, they walked through the doors.

Evenfall Hall was packed, but Brienne was surprised to realise she recognised many of the people there. Catelyn Stark was there, of course, with Arya and Sansa, but so were Garlan and Willas and Victaria Tyrell – Jon Snow was there with Ygritte, him smiling slightly, Ygritte grinning fiercely – Oberyn Martell and Ellaria, sitting beside Doran and Barristan Selmy and a woman who looked hauntingly familiar – and Samwell Tarly, beaming at her, and Gilly – Jeor Mormont, with little Lyanna sitting bolt upright beside him, and beside them, Willa Manderly. Renly and Loras were there, seated with Lancel and Amerei. So was Addam Marbrand, with two men who had enough resemblance to Jaime to have to be his other Lannister cousins. Stannis, Selyse, Tommen and Myrcella and Shireen – and her own family, of course, Wendel and Florys, Colin, Abelar and Galon, Gregor, Laena, Merwyn … Meera Reed was there, beaming, and Jaqen of course with a solemn-faced girl by his side.

Podrick, beaming at her, Peck and Pia, Jaime’s assistant from _Oathkeeper _Jeyne sitting with Sansa and Arya, Joy Hill as well. Alys Karstark, Arys Oakheart … Alyssane Storm, smiling as much at Selwyn as at Brienne. Davos Seaworth and Gendry, sitting with others from the _Oathkeeper_ cast. Tyrion’s colleagues, Bronn and Varys, sitting with Shae and Lollys. Roslin Frey and Edmure Tully … Oswell Whent, Mance Rayder and Val, Daenerys Targaryen with a tall and muscular man as her escort …

People she knew, people she recognised from television and movies and magazines, people she neither knew nor recognised – all looking at her, all at once –

Brienne held fast to Jaime’s hand, held her head high, and walked down the aisle with her husband.


	143. Jaime LIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloaking, Part the Second

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Brienne said, her voice clear and certain. “And take you for my husband.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

_Almost, _Jaime thought. _Almost …_ the rational part of his mind knew that a cloaking, while far more formal than a simple marriage, could still be ended in the courts, but the rational part of his mind was losing the battle with his far more primal conviction that _I am hers and she is mine. She is mine and I am hers. _

The cloaks were switched without a hitch, and it was utterly and legally done. Brienne stood resplendent, surrounded now by the women who’d done family duty for Jaime, the gold and red of the Lannister cloak stark contrast to the pure white of her flowing gown, her flower crown in Tarth’s colours on her fair hair.

She held out her hands to him. “Oh, husband, you look very fine.”

Jaime took her hands, his heart to full to return her smile. “You look _more_ than fine. You are the sun and the stars – the sun and the Evenstar.” He squeezed her fingers. “Ready for the bedding ceremony?”

Brienne nodded. “I feel a little sorry about the cloaks … but they are very heavy to wear all evening.”

He tugged her close and kissed her gently. _She is mine, and I am hers. I am hers, and she is mine. _“I’ll have another set made, for us to wear around the house.”

Brienne’s lips curved against his. “Jaime …”

“Or maybe dressing gowns in same colours would be more practical.”

Brienne drew back, laughing. “Oh, Jaime. _You_, practical?”

He grinned at her. “You’re right. Cloaks it is.”

Together, they turned and began to make their way back down the aisle to the doors. Slowly, because it was important for this last vestige of the historical ceremony that they not hurry. Their attendants had to keep up.

Olenna remained standing by Thoros Myr, but Margaery, Arianne and Jeyne stooped to tear at the hem of Brienne’s trailing cloak, ripping the fabric along the perforations. Arthur, Sandor, Tyrion and Robb did the same with Jaime’s Tarth cloak.

“A bride, a bride!” Arianne cried, throwing a scrap of fabric into the crowd. Gilly rose to her feet and snatched that one, Jaime noted, as Robb called “A husband, a husband!” and tossed another piece of cloth. 

“A bride!” Margaery leaned over to put a snippet into Willa Manderly’s hand.

“A husband,” Arthur Dayne said, and gave his piece to Lew with a smile and a wink that in Jaime’s judgement took their relationship from _open-secret_ to _just plain out-in-the-open._

Finally, amid the cries of _a bride – a husband – a bride –_ they reached the doors, both now wearing cloaks that barely reached their thighs. _Far more comfortable,_ Jaime thought, _not to mention practical. _“Wench,” he said. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Jaime.” Brienne narrowed her eyes. “What have you bought now?”

He grinned. “Nothing you don’t know about. Come on.” He took her hands and drew her through the door and down the stairs to see –

Brienne stopped. “Jaime. That’s Sugar.”

He nodded as Peck led the horse over to them. “To carry us to the reception.”

“Jaime, it’s two minutes walk away! And I’m wearing a _dress!_”

“I took that into account.” Jaime looked back over his shoulder and nodded, and Sandor and Arthur Dayne came down the steps.

“My lady,” Arthur said as formally as any knight from the age of heroes, offering Brienne his hand.

Looking bemused, she took it. Jaime let her go and swung up onto Sugar’s back, and then offered his hand to her again. “Come on, wench.”

“Jaime, I can’t ride a horse in a _dress_!” Brienne protested as she took it with the hand that Arthur wasn’t holding.

“This is an old stuntman’s trick,” Arthur said, tugging her hand gently until she had turned so her back was to Sugar. “Sandor?”

Sandor knelt, and linked his hands together like an illustration of a squire from an old book. “Just step on, Tarth,” he said.

“Gods be good,” Brienne said, but she put her foot into the cradle of Sandor’s hand. Sandor lifted, Arthur hoisted Brienne by the waist, and Jaime drew her arm over his shoulder as she rose. “Gods be good,” Brienne said again, but she was seated in front of Jaime on Sugar’s back, held securely in his arms. “Jaime.” Her feet waved, and Jaime tightened his arms around her. “I can’t ride a horse side-ways!”

“Going by all the pictures, Jonquil spent quite a lot of time doing just that.” He kissed her cheek. “And I’m sure you’re quite as athletic as some sheltered highborn.” Reaching around her, he took up Sugar’s reins, and tapped his heels to her sides. “Besides, it’s Sugar. She won’t let you fall.”

Sugar paced sedately between the rows of flowers and out through the gate. Jaime steered her away from the path down to Evenfall, towards the soft breath of the night-time sea. “This isn’t the way,” Brienne said after a moment, relaxing her death-grip on his shoulders a little.

“We need to give the guests time to get down the hill before we make our grand entrance.” Jaime sat back and gave a slight tug on the reins and Sugar stopped still. “So let’s look at the sea and the stars for a few minutes.”

Brienne shifted a little. “I’m sitting on my cloak,” she said.

“Put your arms around my neck and lift up,” Jaime said, and when she did, tugged her cloak out from under her to fall over Sugar’s shoulder. “There. Better?”

“Much,” Brienne said, subsiding again, although she still held on to him tightly. “Jaime?”

“Yes, wench?”

“Did you just seriously carry me away on horseback?”

Jaime chuckled. “I did. Just like a maiden in a story.” 

Brienne pressed her face to his shoulder. “I’m no maiden in a story.”

“Wench.” He let the reins falls, confident that nothing short of an unexpected dragon would cause Sugar to move without direction, and wrapped his arms around Brienne. “I agree, you’re no maiden, we’ve certainly made sure of that –”

“Jaime,” she mumbled, and he was sure he could _feel_ her blushing despite the dark.

“But I would certainly have carried you away to my castle if we’d lived in the age of ice and fire.” He kissed her temple. “I would most definitely have asked your permission, first, given I have a rudimentary sense of self-preservation.” Brienne gave a huff of laughter. “But yes, Brienne. I would have lifted you up to my saddle-bow and ridden through the night to keep you safe inside my castle walls. You, of course, would have been crucial in organising the defences, being better at it than me. And together we would have seen off the evil king, or your other suitors, or whoever, and they would have written songs and sagas and chronicles about us that would have lasted a thousand years.”

“It’s not something that happens to _me_,” she muttered.

“Oh, wench, gods be good.” He kissed her temple again. “It _is_ happening to you, right at this moment.”

She was silent a long time. “I know I can’t be,” she said at last. “Like the ladies in the stories. I’m not like that. It’s just … when I was little, I _wanted …_”

_Oh, Brienne, Brienne, Brienne … _He held her close. “To be Jonquil? Or Jeyne?” Brienne nodded against his shoulder. “Well, you can be, when it suits you. And not, when it doesn’t. I mean, I imagine you’d go mad with boredom sitting in a solar doing embroidery –”

Brienne raised her head. “That was _not_ a woman’s role in the age of ice and fire, Jaime! Women were as well educated as their brothers, and they had crucial roles in the household economy –” She paused, and narrowed her eyes. “Which you know very well.”

He kissed her. “Which I know very well,” he agreed. “But I just mean, let me carry you off to my castle, my lady, despite the fact that you’re quite able to get there yourself. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of times when I need you to carry _me_ off, I mean, there have been already, but for once, let yourself play the lady, and me play the knight.”

Brienne gazed at him. In the starlight, her eyes were as deep a blue as the evening sea. “Will you carry me off to our cloaking party, instead?”

“As you wish,” Jaime said, and turned Sugar to send her back down the path.

When they reached the area between Evenfall Hall and Evenfall that had been set aside for the celebration, Jaime could immediately see that Tyrion had outdone himself. The whole space was lit by the tiny twinkling lanterns that the Tarths strung up for Last Dark, tracing around the edges of the tables groaning with food, wreathing the signs above the bar tables that told what kind of drinks they served, staked securely into the grass to mark out space for dancing. Mance Rayder was already playing _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_, but he let the chords die as Jaime reined Sugar to a stop.

Renly stepped forward, holding his hands up to Brienne. “Allow me.”

Brienne took his hands and let him help her slide down from Sugar’s back. Jaime swung down himself, tossing the reins to Peck, and tucked his hand into Brienne’s as Renly let her go.

“The happy couple,” Mance said, and got a cheer. “And I have a song for them.” 

“Come on,” Jaime said to Brienne. “I believe the first dance is traditionally ours.”

“I can’t dance,” Brienne said as Jaime tugged her onto the grass marked out as a dance floor.

“Yes, you can.” He raised her hand to his shoulder and held it there. “You can, Brienne.”

“This song is for the Blue Knight and Goldenhand,” Mance said. He struck a chord and leaned into the microphone. “Brothers and sisters, come listen to me. These are things that I give unto thee …”

“These swords of our fathers with lessons well taught,” the crowd joined in. “The shields strong and sturdy from battles well fought.”

Brienne was stiff and awkward in his arms until Jaime gave her his best leer and wink and she turned pink and started laughing and forgot to be embarrassed. He turned and twirled her in time to the music, ventured to dip her, and drew her into a kiss when the music ended that lasted longer that was perhaps appropriate. “How long until we can leave?” he whispered against her lips. “I want to bed my wife in her cloak and gown.”

Brienne turned pink again. “Jaime, don’t say such things in front of everyone!”

And then he had to turn her over to Selwyn for the next dance, which he had with Aunt Genna. Neither Selwyn nor Brienne ventured to do more than sway to the music, but Genna had been the one who’d taught Jaime all the steps to the old dances in the first place, and they gave the crowd a show.

“I still wish I’d at least known that you were Brienne’s maester,” Jaime said to her when the music was done, as they yielded the dance floor to other eager couples and sought a couple of chairs to catch their breath. “But thank you for helping her.”

Genna secured a couple of glasses from a circulating waiter and handed one to him. “I only wish I’d forged my links earlier. I wasn’t the help to you that I should have been, after _Kingslayer_.”

“I did my best to make you think I didn’t need help,” Jaime countered, sipping his beer. 

“Jaime,” she said, tugging on his ear, “sweetling, I’ve known you since you were a babe at Joanna’s breast. You used to smile like Gerion, and that year you lost all your smiles.” She leaned over to plant a soft and sloppy kiss on his cheek. “I’m glad to see they’re back. You look more like yourself than you have in a long time.”

“Did you know?” Jaime wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, but he couldn’t help asking. “About father, about the things he did?”

“Not until later, and only a small part, and not in a way that let me do anything about it,” Genna said, releasing his ear with one last tug. “But enough that when Tyrion ravened me, I knew I had to help. For you, if nothing else, but for little Tommen and Myrcella as well.”

“But you knew how he treated Tyrion,” Jaime said. “Why didn’t you do anything then?”

“None of us crossed Tywin, not when we were children, not later.” Genna sipped her wine. “He was our protector when we were little, and perhaps that blinded me to his faults for far too long. Every little girl needs a big brother to protect her. My brothers saw him more clearly, I think. Kevan found a way to serve Tywin, though it meant living in his shadow, and I do fear now it will mean I will have two brothers in jail and not just one, when all’s revealed. Tyg kept his distance, and Gerion … Gerion made a jape of everything, including danger, which is what finally did him in.” She shrugged. “I told Tywin once, when he disinherited Tyrion over that girlfriend he had, that he was a fool to turn his back on the son most like him, and Tywin didn’t speak to me for years. Imagine if I’d taken him to task when you were both so little, I would never have been allowed to set foot inside the house again.”

Impulsively, Jaime leaned over to kiss her cheek. “And we needed you. You were all the mother either of us had.”

She patted his knee. “Tyrion, maybe, but not you. You are too much like Joanna for that to be true. Sometimes I think she married the wrong brother, you know, but Gerion was never one to stay in one place for more than a month, so perhaps it was for the best.” She looked over to the other side of the dance floor, where Brienne was engaged in an animated conversation with Arianne Martell. “She certainly would approve of Brienne.”

“Thank you,” Jaime said past the sudden lump in his throat. “And I should play my duties as a host a while …”

Genna waved him away. “Yes, go. You’ve spent enough time talking to your fat old aunt. Besides, now you’re a staid married man and not a bachelor playboy, I expect to be invited to dinner on a regular basis.”

“And you will be,” Jaime promised. He gave her one last kiss on the cheek and went to greet the rest of his guests.


	144. Brienne LVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloaking Part the Third

“So you think the Princess in the Tower was a political actor in her own right?” Arianne Martell asked, snagging another glass of champagne.

“Of course!” Brienne leaned forward. “Particularly when you factor in Dornish inheritance law at the time. In the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, she would have been a pawn, but in Dorne …”

Arianne nodded. “In Dorne, she would have been a princess. Which meant –”

“Real political power,” Brienne finished. “But I don’t remember you contributing to any of the threads on her relationship with the Frog Prince. Do you buy into the theories that they weren’t even the same generation?”

“I certainly don’t believe they were romantically involved.” Arianne sipped her champagne. “Everything indicates they were both Martells, and that would be a waste of _two_ marriages that could have been used to knit Dorne closer together or make alliances with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Excuse me,” Oberyn said. He gave Brienne a frankly lascivious smile. “You look stunning, Brienne, and apologies for the interruption. Arianne, your aunt wishes to leave, so we’re going to take her back up to Evenfall Hall and make sure she’s comfortable.”

_Aunt …_ Brienne blinked, suddenly realising why the woman with Doran and Oberyn had seemed so hauntingly familiar. _Elia Martell. _“Please, tell her I was so honoured she came,” she said quickly. “And if there’s anything she needs, find me at once.”

“Kind, as well as magnificent,” Oberyn said. He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to it with a wink.

“Brienne, you look wonderful,” Catelyn said behind her, and with an apologetic look at Arianne, Brienne turned. “Did Robb make your crown?”

Brienne reached up to touch it, careful not to dislodge it. “Yes.”

Catelyn smiled. “I was never very good at them, and Ned was hopeless. Robb took over making them for Sansa and Arya for the Harvest Festivals at a very young age.”

“He’s very good at it –” Brienne started.

“Blue Knight!” Garlan Tyrell seized her in a bear-hug. “What a ceremony! What a party!”

“Tyrion arranged –”

“Brienne!” Sansa cried, launching herself into Brienne’s arms the second Garlan let her go. “That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen. Jaime carried you off just like he was Theon and you were Jeyne! I completely _ruined_ my mascara!”

“I’m sorry?” Brienne tried. “Um, I don’t think Jaime meant to ruin your makeup …”

Sansa released her, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, that nice man, Jack or whoever, fixed it in a trice. It was wonderful! It was like all the old songs and stories come to life.”

Brienne found herself smiling. “It was.” _And sometimes, stories do come true, even for people like me._ Behind Sansa she saw Arthur Dayne hovering, standing with a tall Dornishman with something of the look of Doran about him. “Excuse me?” she said to Sansa, and slipped past her. “Arthur. Thank you so much, again, for being here tonight. I know it meant a great deal to Jaime, and of course it meant a great deal to me.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for all the gold in the Westerlands,” Arthur assured her. “And this is Lew.”

Brienne shook his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Lew said with a smile. “It’s nice to meet the woman who finally managed to put a dent in Arthur’s ego.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “_Actors.”_

“I resemble that remark,” Jaime said cheerfully, putting his arm around Brienne’s shoulders. “Arthur, Lew, I hope you’ve managed to find the food and the drinks.”

“Food, yes,” Arthur said. “Getting past Thoros Myr to the bar, though, is a different matter, at least unarmed.”

“I’ll get Sandor to sit on him,” Jaime promised. “But excuse me while I steal my wife away for a moment.” He lowered his arm from Brienne’s shoulders to her waist and steered her away from the crowd to a cluster of chairs away from the lights. “Let’s sit down for five minutes.”

“Of course.” Brienne took his hand in hers as they sat. “What is it?”

He smiled. “You were looking a little overwhelmed, wench, I thought you could use a breather.”

“Oh.” She leaned against his shoulder. “Yes. Thank you. Did you know Elia Martell was here?”

Jaime kissed her temple. “I did, I saw her in Evenfall Hall. Hand in hand with Barristan Selmy. She hasn’t been out of Sunspear in years, you know, or even left her house I think.”

“Maybe she’s feeling better, now everything is out in the open,” Brienne said.

“I hope so. I hope she gets her life back, at least somewhat like it would have been without my father.” He kissed her temple again. “I hope they all do. At least Tyrion is making sure that Casterly Rock Studios, and father, pay for whatever help they need and whatever compensation the courts say they deserve.” He was silent a moment. “It was nice of you to invite Lyanna Mormont. She has a serious case of hero-worship where you’re concerned.”

“I think that was Tyrion, actually. Helpful publicity pictures of Jaime Lannister’s wife surrounded by adoring small girls.”

Jaime chuckled. “That does sound like Tyrion. He leaves little and less to chance. Oh, and don’t storm off to interfere, but I saw Arya and Gendry making eyes at each other in a shadowed corner earlier.”

“He’s too old for her!” Brienne protested. She started to sit up but Jaime tightened his arm around her. “Jaime. I have to at least tell Catelyn.”

“She’s seventeen,” Jaime said. “The same age your dad was when he joined the Tarth Watch. And she’s a very old seventeen, and Gendry a very young … twenty-two or whatever he is. And besides, Robb was lurking around nearby trying to pretend he wasn’t keeping an eye on them, so I don’t think her maidenhead’s in imminent danger.”

“Oh.” Brienne subsided back against his shoulder. “Well, so long as there’s an adult watching out for her.”

“Ah, but who’s looking out for Gendry?” Jaime said with a chuckle. “Wench, I know we have to do our duty by our guests, but do you think we could persuade Arthur to whisk us away in his helicopter instead of waiting for the seaplane?”

“I am _not_ flying across the Narrow Sea in a helicopter,” Brienne said firmly. “Not even one piloted by Arthur Dayne.”

“Well, we could ask the charter company to –”

“There you are!” a merry, booming voice called, and Brienne looked up to see a tall, fair-haired man with a beard that rivalled Jaime’s on his Brotherhood without Banners days striding towards them. “I finally make it back to Lannisport to find out that my brother’s finally in jail and my nephew didn’t invite me to his cloaking!”

Jaime slipped his arm from Brienne’s waist and stood up. “Uncle Gerion?”

“Good to see you haven’t forgotten who I am, anyway!” Gerion seized Jaime in a bear hug.

“Gods be good, we thought you were dead!” Jaime said, returning the embrace. “Gods be good.”

Gerion pounded him on the back. “It takes more than the Smoking Sea to do me in, lad, despite what those useless cravens on my film-crew thought when they deserted me in Volantis. Now, introduce me to this impressive lady who I hope is your wife, since your arm was around her at your own cloaking.”

Jaime laughed, and reached out to take Brienne’s hand and draw her to her feet. “This is Brienne. Brienne, this is my uncle Gerion, who apparently is less dead than reported previously.”

Gerion gave her a bone-squeezing handshake. “Delighted, lass, delighted.”

“And I’m very pleased to meet you,” Brienne said. “You’ve been in the Smoking Sea?”

He gave her a wide grin that made him look exactly like Jaime did when he was pleased with himself. “I’ve been in Valyria.”

“Uncle,” Jaime protested. “Valyria doesn’t exist any more.”

“Been, seen, filmed,” Gerion said smugly. “I was planning to ask Tywin if Casterly Rock could produce my documentary, but that seems unlikely to happen now.”

“Well, uncle,” Jaime said slowly. “We have a production company now. Lannistarth Productions. I’m not a director, and I know little and less about documentaries, but if you don’t want to go to Lemonwood or Highgarden …”

“Done!” Gerion slapped Jaime on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger slightly. “Raven me when you get back from your honeymoon. And now I believe I have ale to drink and a sister to startle.” With one last grin that re-emphasized his resemblance to Jaime, he turned and made his way back to the heart of the party. Somewhere in the crowd, Genna’s voice rose in a shriek, _Gery, Gery, gods be good!_

“Do you think he _really_ found Valyria?” Brienne asked.

Jaime grinned at her. “I’m sure he found _something_. You’ve never seen his documentaries?” Brienne shook her head. “He found Vaes Dothrak, he retraced Elissa Farman’s voyage and found the wreck of _Sun Chaser_. I’ll believe he found Valyria when I see him brandishing Brightroar, but whatever he found, it’ll be an amazing tale. They always are.” He leaned up to kiss her. “Have you managed to get anything to eat yet?”

Brienne shook her head. “I was too nervous about spilling something on this dress.”

“Come on, then.” Jaime laced his fingers through hers and tugged her back towards the party. “I’ll find you a napkin that covers you neck-to-knee.” He leered comically. “You need to keep your strength up for later.”

“Jaime!” Brienne protested, laughing, and let him tow her back towards the food, and the dancing, and their friends.


	145. Jaime LV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The honeymoon, part the first. NSFW!

The seaplane taxied to the Pentos dock. Jaime scrambled to his feet when it came to a stop, climbed out and offered Brienne his hand. “My lady.”

She went pink and gave him a shy smile. “Thank you,” she said, allowing him to assist her down from the seaplane.

Peck had arranged a hire carriage to take them to the Red Temple Hotel. Jaime led Brienne to it and handed her up to the seat as their green-bearded driver collected their bags and loaded them into the back. “Your carriage, my lady,” he said, gave the horse a pat and climbed up beside her.

“Jaime, a horse-drawn carriage?” Brienne asked softly.

He found her hand, clasped it, and kissed it. “Nothing but the best for my lady wife.” The carriage took them the scenic route, through the narrow streets of the old city with their brick towers and tile-roofed buildings. Brienne gasped when the Sunrise Gate came into view, lit up for night, bathed in floodlights and glowing against the night sky. “We have breakfast booked there for dawn, the day after tomorrow,” Jaime said.

“Not tomorrow?”

He chuckled. “Well, technically it might be tomorrow, given the fact that it’s well past the hour of the wolf.” The carriage drew up at the Red Temple Hotel and Jaime leapt out, offering his hand to help Brienne down before their driver could. “Allow me, my lady.”

Peck had made sure the check-in was streamlined. In barely a few moments, they were in the elevator with a porter carrying their bags, and then alone in their suite with the door shut and locked.

“Wench.” Jaime tugged Brienne over to the window, with its view of the Sunrise Gate in all its night-time glory.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Brienne said softly. “I thought it would look like the movies, but it’s so much better.”

Jaime wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. “Real life is better than the movies.”

Brienne drew back, frowning. “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

Jaime smiled, a bubble of happiness rising in his chest. “Your husband is here, wife.” He kissed her. “I am yours, as you are mine.”

Brienne’s mock frown melted into a tender smile. “You are mine, as I am yours. From this day –”

“Until my last day,” they finished together, and Jaime leaned forward to kiss her again.

He meant to make it a gentle, tender kiss, but _gods be good_ her lips were soft and sweet and plump and her mouth opened eagerly against his and as he drew her close the silky fabric of her gown slithered over her firm, strong body in a way that made all the blood rush south of Jaime’s belt. He gathered her gown in his hands and slid it up her thighs, teasing her tongue with his as he did, until he could bunch it around her waist and stroke the bare skin of her hip.

“Jaime …” Brienne murmured huskily. “The curtains …”

He lowered his head to kiss her throat. “The windows have a privacy tint. It’s a selling point of the hotel.”

Brienne let her head fall back. “Are you sure?”

Jaime chuckled, running his lips up her neck to her ear. “Very. Take it from a tabloid darling. It’s the sort of thing I check.”

She smiled, and then gasped as his fingers moved inside her smallclothes. “Jaime …”

He tugged them down, sinking to his knees as he did so. “Welcome to Pentos,” he murmured, and then leaned forward to press his lips against her. Brienne cried out, hips jerking, her hands coming down to run through his hair. Jaime ran his hands up her legs, and then wrapped his right arm around her thighs and stroked her with the fingers of his left.

“Jaime, Jaime …” Brienne raised one hand to brace herself against the window as he slipped his fingers inside her, curled to stroke the place that always made her writhe and beg. “Oh, Jaime … please, Jaime …” Her fingers curled in his hair, not pulling, just holding him close, as her thighs quivered and her voice rose on a sob. “I need – I need – Jaime, I need –” Jaime knew what she needed, and he gave it to her, lips and tongue and fingers, and Brienne screamed his name, knees buckling. He tightened his grip on her legs and kept on sucking and stroking and she wailed again, wordlessly this time, hand sliding down the window as she folded over him, shuddering, her red cloak sliding over her shoulders to fall over them both. “Jaime…” she murmured, and he lowered her to the floor and stretched out between her legs and tasted and touched her until her heels were drumming on the carpet and she was bucking and writhing almost beyond his strength to hold her hips down.

He raised himself up, fingers still deep inside her. “I am yours,” he said. “And you are mine.”

“Oh, _yes_,” Brienne gasped, went rigid and then thrashed violently, moaning _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime _… as she convulsed and shuddered. He gentled his touch and she panted _no, more_, so he gave her more and she shook against him again, sprawled on the floor with her Lannister cloak beneath her and her cloaking gown hiked up around her waist. “More, Jaime, please, please!” she begged, all her shyness and modesty overwhelmed by need and want, back arching and hips lifting to press herself against his mouth. “Jaime … Jaime … oh … oh … _Jaime!_” She shook from head to foot, clenching and spasming around his fingers, hands clutching his shoulders as her hips heaved. “More, oh, more, _yes!_” Another violent shudder wracked her and she wailed wordlessly, straining up against him. “I need …” she gasped breathlessly. “I need … oh Jaime, please, I need you –”

He curled his fingers inside her, palm rubbing hard against her bud, and Brienne groaned and tightened around him and then screamed with relief, the waves of her release clenching around his fingers over and over again as she sobbed _yes Jaime yes Jaime yes_ until one final convulsion shook her as his own climax overtook him, and she went limp and quiet beneath him.

He slid his fingers from her gently and wrapped her up in his arms. “Wench?”

“Mmmm,” Brienne said, turning her face into his neck.

“Are you alright?”

“Wonderful,” Brienne mumbled. “Hush.”

“Hushing,” Jaime said, rubbing her back gently.

After a few moments, she raised her head. “What would you like?”

“To get up off this floor and onto the no-doubt luxuriously comfortable bed,” Jaime said. He grinned at her. “And to get out of these pants that you’ve just made me ruin.”

“Oh, Jaime, I’m sure they can be dry-cleaned –” his utterly predictable wench started, and Jaime threw back his head and laughed like a loon.

“I’ll make Peck take them in,” he said through his chuckles. “To spare my blushes. Up, wench. Bed.”

Brienne climbed to her feet, took his hand and tugged him up with her. “Help me out of this dress, first.”

“I almost want to refuse so I can spend the night looking at you in it,” Jaime said, unfastening the clasps that held her red cloak and then starting on the tiny fastenings along her arms. “But I also want to get all your clothes off so I can spend the night looking at you naked. It’s a dilemma.”

“One you have apparently resolved,” Brienne said as one side of her gown fell free.

“Mmm.” Jaime paused in his task and leaned down to take her pink nipple between his lips. “I am very in favour of naked Brienne.” He straightened and started on her other arm, as Brienne began to undo his collar. “Although naked Brienne with Oathkeeper strapped around her waist would probably beat just plain naked Brienne by a short half-head.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

It took Brienne heartbeat to understand the innuendo and then she blushed. “Jaime …”

He got the last of her gown unfastened and helped her with his jacket as the white fabric slithered to the floor, leaving her bare and magnificent. “You know you’re going to go that delightful shade of pink every time you see the Sunrise Gate in a picture or a movie from now on, don’t you?” He kissed her, distracting them both from the complicated clips of his jacket for a moment. “All you’ll be able to think of is my head between your legs and my fingers inside you as you looked at it for the first time.”

Brienne blushed harder, but she said boldly, “I’ll have to save some pictures of it on my phone for when we’re apart, then.”

Jaime shrugged out of his jacket, the Tarth cloak falling away with it. “Bold of you to assume I’ll let you be more than an arm’s length from me.” He shed his trousers and small clothes. “Bed, wench. I’ve been longing to feel you against me all day.”


	146. Brienne LIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honeymoon, part the second. NSFW!

It was sunlight streaming through the window that woke Brienne. At first, she turned her head from the light and pressed closer to Jaime, long and lean and naked as his name day, warm against her side. He murmured something indistinct and wrapped himself more tightly around her, and Brienne drifted for a while in a pleasant half-doze in which she was half in a hotel bed in Essos with Jaime and half wrapped in warm furs in a firelit room with him. After a while, the furs became too hot, and she opened her eyes to push them away and realised that the sun had risen high enough to be falling full across the bed.

“Jaime,” she whispered. “It’s midday. We should get up.”

“Shhh,” he mumbled, without opening his eyes. “Early. Shhh.”

“Jaime.” She ran her hand over his chest. “We can’t stay in bed all day.”

“We can. We’re on our honeymoon.”

“Jaime.” Her fingers brushed his nipple and he shivered. Brienne smiled, and did it again. “What can I do to persuade you to wake up and take me sightseeing?”

“That’s waking one part of me up,” Jaime said.

She leaned down and kissed him. His mouth was sour with sleep, and so was hers, probably, but the kiss was sweet and slow and woke a yearning ache between her legs. “What would you like?” she asked, lips brushing his.

“To be inside you,” Jaime said hoarsely. “As soon as possible.”

“I’ll get –”

“Bedside drawer,” Jaime said. He opened his eyes and grinned at her. “They know we’re newly-cloaked.”

Brienne found the foil packet, ripped it open, and rolled the sheathe over his cock. She straddled him, took him in hand and lowered herself slowly. “Like this? Should we turn over?”

“Like this,” Jaime gasped, and then moaned and twisted beneath her as she took him fully inside her. “Oh, Brienne, fuck, yes, like this, like this –”

Brienne held still, feeling him stretching her, filling her, enveloped and surrounded by her. “Like this?” she asked, tightening around him. _You have _muscles_, _he’d said after their first bedding, and _fuck, do that, fuck, Brienne, yes_ often enough since then that she’d come to understand that her instinctive efforts to hold him as close inside her as she could were something he very much enjoyed.

Jaime groaned in response, hips jerking. He wrapped his arms around her and tugged her down for a kiss, one hand sliding up to tangle in her hair and the other cupping her breast. “Brienne. Brienne,” he panted. “Wench, I’m close, I’m too close –”

“Let go,” she said, clenching around him, and with a cry he did, back arching, beautiful and golden and abandoned beneath her. A sudden gush of heat within her took Brienne suddenly over the edge with him, crying out his name against his mouth as pleasure washed over her like a flood tide. 

“Wench,” Jaime said after a few moments. “If that’s your idea of persuading me to get out of bed, I’m afraid to tell you that you’re misguided.”

Brienne disentangled herself from him. There was more mess than she would have expected, Jaime’s warm seed running down her legs –

“Oh, seven hells,” Jaime said. “The condom broke.”

Brienne used the sheet to mop up. “I’ll get some moon tea. They’ll have some in Pentos, surely.”

Jaime chuckled. “I’m fairly sure that if there’s anywhere in the world they have moon tea, it’s Pentos.” He stretched for the bedside phone. “I’ll call the concierge.”

Brienne put her hand over his. “Jaime, no. I’ll just go to an apothecary later today.” She bit her lip. “I don’t want the people here to think …”

“Oh, wench.” Jaime let go of the phone and wrapped his arms around her. “Fairly sure they know that a newly-cloaked couple coming to Pentos for the weekend are bedding. But alright, we’ll spare your blushes. I’ll even go into the apothecary for you.”

Brienne turned pink, and buried her face against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Accordingly, later that day, Brienne loitered as inconspicuously as someone her size could outside an apothecary while Jaime was inside buying moon tea. He returned with pills, rather than the powder she expected, but well, they were in Essos, after all. _He said to take two per day_, Jaime said, so Brienne took her first two as discreetly as she could as they waited for their late lunch at _Illyrio’s_.

As she set her water glass down again, she was surprised to catch an uncharacteristically grave expression on Jaime’s face. She reached across the table to take his hand. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He squeezed her fingers. “Just … I know we talked about it. About time. And it’s not the right time. I just …” He shrugged. “You love children, wench. I know you want them, and I want you to have what you want.”

“Oh, Jaime.” Brienne tightened her grip on his hand. “If it’s not the right time, it’s not the right time. We have years to talk about it, years to make a decision.”

“I know.” He shrugged again. “I just didn’t expect to feel … sad, I guess.”

The arrival of their first course, mussels and cockles and clams on a great tray of salted ice, interrupted the conversation, but Jaime’s words nagged at Brienne for the rest of the day as they wandered through the bazaar and haggled amicably over Essosi trinkets, toured the ancient palace of the Princes of Pentos and listened to the gory stories of how those princes had met their ends, drank amber wine in a crowded winesink by the harbour.

“Stag for your thoughts,” Jaime said as they made their way back through the narrow alleys to the Red Temple Hotel. He slung his arm around her shoulders and drew her close for a kiss. “I know your mind is working, I’m familiar with that look.”

“I just don’t like my friends being sad,” Brienne said.

Jaime drew her to a stop and kissed her, as deeply and slowly as if they were alone. “Wench,” he said, when he broke away. “It’s just that I realised I want to meet our children, one day. Not this year, perhaps not next year, but one day.” He grinned. “Can you imagine? My wit and your courage? The Seven Kingdoms will fall before them.”

“Jaime.” Brienne cupped his face in her hands and kissed him back. “I would like it, to have children, yes. But I understand that Tommen and Myrcella must come first.”

He leaned into her. “I don’t even know what they think. They might be delighted. Or horrified.”

“When the time is right, you should ask them that,” Brienne said, carding her fingers through his hair.

They fell asleep early that night, twined together under the lights of the Sunrise Gate, and got up early the next morning too, to have breakfast in the revolving restaurant atop the Gate as the sun peeked past the horizon and set the city aflame. Brienne wasn’t _entirely_ sure about the Pentoshi breakfast special of creamy cheese and wine and unidentifiable fried meats that were distinctively intestinal, but there was plenty of toast and coffee and a ridiculous assortment of spreads and when Jaime noticed she’d left most of her main and spoke to the waiter, they brought her an excellent smoked fish, as well.

They watched the sun rise through the window of the restaurant and then watched it climb higher from the top of the Sunrise Gate, the tiled roofs of Pentos spread out before them.

“I owe you a kiss, wench,” Jaime said, turning her to face him. “Here at the top of the Sunrise Gate.” He smiled. “And you know Lannisters always pays their debts.”


	147. Ravens XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravens on various phones.

14:23 Me: _tailor wants to know what dress your wearing to the premiere._

14:52 Wife: _raven me his number I’ll get Alerie to send him a picture_

14:54 Me: _thx its so we don’t clash_

15:23 Wife: _won’t you just be in a suit?_

15:24 Me: _wench don’t tell my tailor that he’ll have an apoplexy_

15:26 Me: _do you want Dornish or seafood tonight?_

15:37 Wife: _either’s fine. _

15:38 Me: _k will get Pcek to make reservation_

15:43 Me: _did pia give you your media summary yet?_

15:52 Wife: _yes but I haven’t looked at it. Is there something awful? _

15:53 Me: _opposte. Check it_

15:59 Wife: _how did Golden Rose get pictures inside Evenfall Hall? And at the party?_

16:02 Me: _tyrion ofc. I mean, officially, guests with phones. But tyrion. _

16:04 Wife: _you look so handsome and so happy. _

16:06 Wife: _and Sugar photographs very well_

16:06 Me: _she’s a stunt horse it’s a key part of hr skill ste. _

16:07 Me: _and you look amazing in those photos, wench, far more than me and sugar_

16:08 Me: _like a warrior queen from the age of ice nd fire. _

16:09 Me: _oh and chk the story frm Pentosi Print._

16:10 Me: _you look really good in those shots too, they’ll be picke dup everywhere by tomorrow. _

16:15 Wife: _how did they even know we were there?_

16:17 Me: _varys I expect, he has a lot of contacts in Pentos. He probably hired the pap. _

16:19 Me: _and we’ll be papped on the way to dinner 2nite, just so you’re prepared. _

16:46 Wife: _I figured the minute you said reservations that would be the case. Jaqen is coming by to do my hair and I ravened Pia to pick me an outfit. _

16:47 Me: _look at my wife the movie star. _

16:56 Wife: _it’s for Oathkeeper. _

16:57 Me: _I know wench _

17:04 Me: _besides your not a movie star, you’re the movie evenstar_

17:16 Wife: _Jaime that doesn’t even make sense. _

17:38 Wife: _did Peck tell you I’m going to Rosby tomorrow?_

17:39 Me: _he did I’d come but I’m booked on good morning westeros _

17:40 Me: _do you think you could phone in from the car? Like, a fake surprise? I’ll pretend I just forgot to turn off my phone._

17:55 Wife: _sure, if it’ll help. _

* * *

14:22 Barry: _I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed today. _

14:35 Brienne: _I’m so glad, and thank you very much for your help. The cabbage was delicious. _

14:50 Barry: _it was entirely my pleasure. _

15:12 Barry: _I also forgot to ask you for your assistant’s contact details. _

15:22 Brienne: _Pia? Please don’t hire her away from me! I couldn’t keep everything straight without her. _

15:30 Barry: _wouldn’t dream of it. I have almost persuaded Elia to be my guest at the Oathkeeper launch, and she has special requirements. I wanted to discuss whether they’d be possible with your Pia. _

15:36 Brienne: _I’m sure they’d be possible but you need Arryk or Erryk, Olenna’s assistants. I’ll raven you their details. _

15:45 Barry: _thank you that’s much appreciated. _

15:48 Barry: _Are you going to do more Cooking with the Blue Knight_ _segments?_

15:55 Brienne: _I’m not sure, it depends on the vegetable people and if I can get anyone to agree. _

17:12 Barry: _Arthur, Gery, and Jon Darry are all in, although don’t let Gery near the actual cooking. _

17:22 Brienne: _That’s wonderful. _

17:58 Barry: _Salladhor Saan and Mya Stone will do it as a couple_

18:22 Barry: _Brynden Tully will do it if he can do it as a tie in with his show and you cook a fish he caught_

18:45 Brienne: _it’s supposed to be for vegetables, not fish, though_

18:56 Barry: _cook the fish with a lot of vegetable sides. I don’t think the WVGA would complain at having someone with Brynden’s ratings on board. _

19:10 Brienne: _Thank you very much, Barristan. _

19:33 Barry: _entirely my pleasure._

* * *

09:12 Mum: _Calm down, I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that._

09:13 Me: _dad just doesn’t understand! _

09:14 Mum: _sweet, I’m sure he does. He’s been in movies for years. _

09:14 Me: _then why won’t he lend me the money! _

09:16 Mum: _possibly because it’s a truly ugly dress._

09:16 Me: _mum! It’s FASHION!!1!_

09:17 Mum: _then fashion needs to be taken out to the red sands and buried in a shallow grave. _

09:18 Me: _it’s a Yronwood! Everyone’s wearing their designs!_

09:22 Mum: _Sarella, it looks like you painted yourself with honey and rolled over some random scraps of fabric. _

09:24 Mum: _I’ll take you to a decent designer – Toland, maybe – and buy you something that makes you look like the stylish beauty you are. _

09:26 Mum: _now open your door. _

09:35 Mum: _I mean it, Sarella, or I’ll raven Obara with a blind item about a certain young actress sulking in her bedroom_

* * *

10:12 Princess: _did you see the morning in westeros segment?_

10:22 Myself: _yes. _

10:30 Princess: _at least he plugged our film as well_

10:35 Myself: _this isn’t going to be our year, not for best picture_

10:43 Princess: _it should be. OATID is good_

10:48 Myself: _there is no way to compete with the Seven Kingdom’s most popular couple on screen together playing a couple. You still have a chance at Best Actress, and Jaime Lannister might pick up Best Support. Costume, sound, cinematography we have a chance. But not best picture. Olenna outplayed me with the release date._

10:55 Princess: _It’s not fair. _

11:15 Myself: _perhaps not. But it will also be a spectacular public humiliation for the man who ruined your aunt’s life. So I find I can live with the prospect. _

* * *

14:22 B Tarth: _Jaime please tell me why they are painting our bedroom Lannister red._

14:25 Jaime: _with Tarth trim_

14:28 B Tarth: _Jaime it looks appalling. Like someone staged a Red Wedding in here._

14:29 Jaime: _well what should it be_

14:30 B Tarth: _anything else. Literally anything. _

* * *

15:22 Spider: _I have news_

15:25 Me: _good or bad?_

15:26 Spider: _it depends on your perspective. Project R has concluded. Unfortunately, R passed on some years ago. Cancer. Although you may be pleased to know it was a particularly painful variety _

15:28 Me: _no actually I’m not but thanks_

* * *

14:22 Me: _you are coming right?_

14:23 Me: _and Sahe?_

15:32 Little Bro: _I’m not sure you want your dwarf brother and his former sex-worker paramour walking the red carpet at your big premier_

15:35 Me: _please don’t say things that make me want to punch you in order to defend you. It’s confusing_

15:42 Little Bro: _and you are a bear of very little brain. _

15:43 Me: _haha I can’t believe you still remember Whalen the Pooh. _

15:58 Little Bro: _dear brother, not only do I remember it, I remember the voices you used to use for Pyg and Dolorous Ed. _

16:22 Little Bro: _and you are a bear of very great brain, by the way. Just of greater loyalty. _

16:25 Me: _tyrion I’m not ashamed of you and I’m not ashamed of the fact that you love shae and I’m not ashamed of shae_

16:26 Me: _and I want you there bec it wdn’t have happened without you and fuck everybody else_

16:27 Me: _tyrion I fucking mean it an I am yr big brother I am pulling rank you hv 2 do what I say_

* * *

18:22 Rosebud: _what are you wearing for the caprt we shd coordinate. _

18:53 AM: _I’ll raven you a pic_

19:15 Rosebud: _darling that’s amazing. You’re going with arys?_

19:16 AM: _yes and you? _

19:22 Rosebud: _Willas. Grandmama says it’s time to transition my image_

19:23 Rosebud: _do you know what B is wering?_

19:36 AM: _yes, alerie is doing her too. I’ll raven you _

19:40 Rosebud: _well frankly we both could wear sacks._

19:42 AM: _IKR_

19:48 Rosebud: _excellent for the movie tho. I hope you get a nod for lead for the dorne pic_

19:55 AM: _I hope you get best support. Shame yr against sarella. _

19:56 Rosebud: _losing to some1 in the same film is probably the best way to lose. _

* * *

09:23 Unknown number: _hello. This is Tommen._

09:24 Me: _hi tommen I didn’t know you’d got a phone. <strike>Is everything</strike> <strike>what can I </strike>How are you_

10:22 Tommen: _i talked 2 Myrcella. She told me about you and mum. _

10:25 Me: _I wasn’t trying 2 keep it secrit just wanted rhte right tme. _

10:48 Tommen: _yes she said. I wanted 2 tell you that I’m no upset. _

10:55 Tommen: _but ur not my dad. sorry. But dad was my dad._

11:14 Me: _yes. I know. _

11:15 Me: _don’t b sorry. You didn’t do nething wrong. _

12:22 Tommen: _it’s just a bit confusing._

12:34 Tommen: _neway Stannis pringing up to KL for the premier of yr film_

12:38 Tommen: _if u don’t think that’s 2 weird. _

12:50 Me: _I’d be very pleased to have you there. _

13:19 Tommen: _how’s Leo?_

13:25 Me: _ruling the house. Let me find you his best pics to raven you. _


	148. Jaime LV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The premiere of Oathkeeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to SeeThemFlying for reading this and reassuring me that it wasn't complete nonsense.

“Jaime, I can’t,” Brienne said desperately, clutching his hand.

“You can,” Jaime assured her. The limousine door opened, but he didn’t move, just stayed sitting next to her with both her hands held in his. “Brienne. You look fantastic. The film is terrific. All you have to do is walk inside with me.”

“I should never have let you talk me into these heels,” she mumbled, looking down at her feet.

“Brienne. Wench. I’ll help you out of the car, and you put your arm around my shoulders, and I’ll put mine around your waist, and I’ll keep you steady, alright?”

“They make me so tall!” It was almost a wail.

“You’re the Blue Knight. You’re supposed to be tall. Brienne. Look at me.” Jaime brushed his thumb across her cheek, gently, so as not to disturb the minimal makeup Jaqen had given her. “You look amazing. Not as amazing as you look in armour, not as amazing as you look in bed, but fairly amazing, all the same. You’re the star. You have to walk the red carpet. We’ll go inside, watch the film, and that will be it. Alright?”

“What if I’m terrible?”

“You weren’t. Trust me. If you’d been terrible, I would have told you. You watched the film with me, remember?” Brienne nodded, and Jaime squeezed her hands. “Brienne. Everyone who sees this film is going to see what I see. Everyone who sees you in that fucking amazing dress is going to see what I see. Listen, if you can’t do it, we’ll just go home, alright?”

“You can’t go home,” Brienne said. “It’s your film.”

“I’d rather go home with you than put up with this nonsense without you.”

“These shoes,” she said helplessly.

Jaime let go of her hands and leaned down to slip her shoes from her feet. “There. Barefoot on the red carpet, you’ll set a trend. Can you do it now?”

She swallowed hard, and nodded. “Don’t leave me alone.”

“Not for a second,” Jaime promised. “I’m going to get out now and go around to help you out, alright?” Brienne nodded again, and Jaime got out of the limo before she could change her mind, hurrying around the back of the car to her side. “Just give me your hands,” he said, and she did. “Feet out first, there you are.” He drew her to her feet.

There was an audible gasp, and the camera flashes were blinding. Jaime couldn’t blame them. Alerie Hightower had outdone herself. Brienne’s shoulders were bare above a tight bodice in shimmering shades of blue and green that flared out below her waist into a froth of the same colours, accented with white. She looked as if she was rising from the crest of a breaking wave, a mermaid leaping.

She looked like a force of nature.

“Jaime,” Brienne whispered.

“It’s alright,” Jaime assured her. He put his arm around her waist, although Alerie Hightower would kill him for obscuring her creation from some of the photographers. “We just have to walk along there, and we’ll be inside.”

“Why are they taking so many pictures?”

He grinned up at her. “Because you look bloody magnificent, wench. You look like a fucking goddess. I am going to make that film about Durran Godsgrief, you know, but Elenei will be the daughter of the goddess of the sea, not the god, and you’ll play her.”

Brienne blinked at him. “Elenei?”

“The goddess,” Jaime said, and leaned up to kiss her. “Magnificent and terrifying.” 

She blushed. “Jaime, don’t be ridiculous –”

“Brienne!” Anya Waynwood thrust a microphone in Brienne’s face. “Who designed your amazing dress?”

Jaime pivoted so he was between Brienne and the microphone. “Alerie Hightower designed my wife’s dress, and my suit is from Estermonts. But I’m sure you have some questions about the film?”

“What was it like to play the Blue Knight?”

“Terrifying,” Brienne said with her devastating sincerity. “She’s one of the most important figures in Westerosi women’s history, and there’s never been a film that explored her story.”

“The Blue Knight and the Queen in the North in the same film,” Anya said. “As well as the fictional Dragon Queen. Some people might say _Oathkeeper_ is pushing an agenda.”

“Some people, but I hope not you, Anya,” Jaime said. “I mean, Goldenhand and the Young Wolf and the Bear in the same film? Some people might say _that_ was pushing an agenda.”

Anya smiled. “And do you have any other productions in the pipeline?”

Jaime winked. “That would be telling,” he said, and steered Brienne past her and along the red carpet. “Breathe,” he said to her softly. “Breathe, and walk, and we’re nearly there –”

Behind them, a sudden outburst of questions and explosion of flash-bulbs told him that someone else newsworthy had arrived. Jaime spared a glance over his shoulder to see Sarella stepping out of her car in a sleek black dress that flowed like water from her throat to her ankles. She paused to let her assistant wrap a cloak of black and grey over her shoulders –

“The Queen in the North!” a fan yelled from the crowd, and other voices took up the cry. _The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!_

“How do they know the end?” Brienne whispered.

Jaime grinned at her. “Pre-planned leaks and genuine leaks from the advance screenings.”

As Sarella advanced regally up the red carpet, Jaime ushered Brienne in through the doors of the theatre and into the crowded, but far more relaxed, foyer.

“Brienne!” Olenna shouldered the people around her aside to grasp Brienne’s hands. “You look utterly astonishing.”

Brienne turned bright pink. “Thank you.”

Olenna tugged her down to kiss her cheek. “My dear. My only worry is that you’ll outshine the movie.”

More flashbulbs outside and shouts, this time, of _the King in the North! The King in the North!_ heralded Robb’s arrival, arm-in-arm with Jeyne Westerling. He was still charming the reporters and the fans when Margaery’s limousine pulled up. Jeyne slipped in through the doors to the foyer, and Robb and Margaery gave the photographers a few moments to get shots of the King in the North and his Southron bride Rose before coming inside themselves. Daenerys was next on the red carpet, hand-in-hand with her tall paramour, wearing a stunning silver gown that shone against her white skin and pale blonde hair. She caught Jaime’s eye as she approached the doors after doing her duties with the press and gave a discreet jerk of her chin. Wondering what she was up to, Jaime followed her directions and stepped forward to chivalrously open the door for her.

“Jaime,” she said, in a clear carrying voice, and gave him a friendly hug that made flashbulbs go off like fireworks. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

_Just to make sure our _reconciliation_ stays front and centre in the public’s mind,_ Jaime thought, returned her hug and tried to shake her boyfriend’s hand without having any bones broken.

Brienne turned pink again when the main cast got a round of applause when they entered the theatre. “Why are they clapping us _before_ they see the film?” she whispered to Jaime as he escorted her to their assigned seats.

“Most of the people here _have_ seen the film, in whole or in part,” he told her, helping her gather her full skirts as she sat down. “Half of them because they worked on it and the other half because they’ve had advance copies to write their reviews.” He grinned at her and leaned down to kiss her cheek before taking the chair next to her. “Which are excellent, or so Tyrion tells me. Best not to wonder how Tyrion knows.” 

The excited chatter in the theatre began to quieten as the lights dimmed. Brienne took Jaime’s hand and held it firmly. _Please let them like it_, he heard her whisper to herself. _Please let them like it._

He leaned over and kissed her. “They’ll like it.” All his anxieties about _Oathkeeper’s_ reception had vanished with his first full viewing of the film, but Brienne’s had only grown with every publicity event, photoshoot or interview. “You just wait, wench. They’ll love it. And you.”

The snow-shrouded Wolfswood came up on the screen, and Jaime gave Brienne one last kiss and settled in to watch the audience watch his film.

Everyone jumped very satisfyingly when the corpse’s eyes popped open, their bright and unearthly blue having been provided by visual effects in post. The Blue Knight’s fight with the horde of dead got gasps, and when Goldenhand’s forces swept in to the rescue and to herald the credits, there was a ripple of applause.

The credits, with the downstrokes of every letter formed by swords, were accompanied by a wordless, sombre rendition of Mance’s theme, made martial by the addition of not-particularly-authentic trumpets. The audience got their first view of the dragon in a brilliantly edited shot that _seemed_ to pan out without a single cut from a close up of the Dragon Queen on his back to a panoramic shot of the dragon flying above the scores of marching men in Goldenhand’s army. That got another smattering of applause.

Then they were straight into Goldenhand’s arrival at Winterfell, the Young Wolf’s relief at seeing Rose and She Wolf safe tempered by his brittle anger at Goldenhand. The Blue Knight commiserated with the Dragon Queen over the cold, Goldenhand gave her his cloak – the narrative followed She Wolf and Rose inside where they shared a quick, quiet conversation about the Young Wolf’s state of mind that filled the audience in on the history of conflict between the two families. _I do not believe anything could make that man turn against his family_, She Wolf fretted, and Rose smiled. _Not even love?_

That was the smooth segue into an outdoors scene between the Blue Knight and Goldenhand, which Jaime was still amazed worked, given how hard it had been to coax natural-seeming reactions from Brienne when they filmed it. But _did_ work. Even if the Blue Knights’ reaction shots were actually Brienne looking at Jaime rather than the Blue Knight looking at Goldenhand, the editing was seamless, and despite the sparse dialogue about logistics and supply-lines, the character’s deep and mutual love shone from the screen. She tried to give him back Oathkeeper, he refused, the backstory between them was fleshed out a little more, and the scene was done.

Then came the prophecy, the looming threat, Goldenhand advising the Dragon Queen to save the kingdom to win the throne – the bad news arriving by ravens – _Dark wings, dark words –_ the reveal of She Wolf’s identity, the Blue Knight’s resolute defence of her against the outrage of the Young Wolf’s bannermen, _I did not hear so much about what women should and shouldn’t do when my shield blocked the axe like to split your skull, ser – _the Blue Knight followed the Young Wolf from the Great Hall and confronted him over his distrust of Goldenhand. _He gave me this sword, your grace, and named it Oathkeeper, that I might keep those of his oaths that he could not. He is a man of honour, and his word. _That led into a terrific scene between Robb and Daenerys in which the Young Wolf’s sense of honour fought with his desperate desire to save his people, and honour won, barely, forcing him to reveal the prophecy despite his fears she’d flee the battle in response. _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_, he told the shocked Dragon Queen.

A scene between Goldenhand and the Dragon Queen in which she refused to tell him what troubled her, doing double duty as an explanation of legend of the King of Winter – the one in the courtyard between Goldenhand and the Blue Knight in which he coaxed a partial admission of the prophecy from her and then came close to speaking his love aloud – the feast in the Great Hall, the first time in the film the voiced version of the theme was heard –

Jaime looked around as Goldenhand pressed a kiss to the Blue Knight’s hand and saw several people brushing away tears.

The same theme was playing, soft and slow, when the frantic rush to the defences had finished and Goldenhand found the Blue Knight on the ramparts. There were audible sighs from the audience as they shared their first kiss. “She’s so brave,” a child said somewhere in the audience, and Jaime turned to see Tommen sitting with Myrcella and Stannis.

And then the action started.

The dead and the Others attacked the wall. The Bear’s scene with the archers got laughter and then, a moment later, as he left them to defend the gate, his heroic death got gasps and at least one cry of _oh, no!_ Asha was phenomenal as she cradled her dying Lord and uncle and then took up his sword and turned to face the foe. _Here I stand!_ she roared.

_Harden the fuck up_, Jaime thought, and managed not to laugh out loud.

Olenna had held the scene long enough to show She Bear holding her own against the oncoming dead as the Dragon Queen swooped by and incinerated some of them, although there were a few too many cuts in the fight-scene for Jaime’s taste. _Necessary, though. It’s not Asha’s strength. _Then back to the ramparts, where Goldenhand was engaged in a desperate and losing fight against the ice-spiders, until the Blue Knight rescued him at the very last minute. _Your sword and shield_, she said, and they turned to run together for the tenuous safety of the crypts, rescuing She Bear along the way. Together they fought their way through the animated dead, including an unrecognizable Sandor Clegane and a slightly-recognisable Beric Dondarrion. The Young Wolf got his own sequence, rescuing his people and urging them to hurry to the crypts, and Jaime had to admit that Robb had put in the work with Sandor to sell the Young Wolf as a competent fighter. _Not as good as the Blue Knight, though._

The dead began to break into the crypt, She Wolf wielding her dagger beside Goldenhand and the Blue Knight to hold them off as She Bear was carried off to have her wounds tended. The Young Wolf fought to reach the crypt – he was in sight of the door as the defenders fell back –

_Hold the door! _She Wolf ordered. _Hold the door!_

_Retreat! _the Young Wolf bellowed. _Retreat! I order you to retreat!_

The doors of the crypt were pushed closed, She Wolf sobbing uncontrollably as she abandoned her brother to death – _we are trapped_, Goldenhand said grimly, and Rose shook her head – _there is a secret way_. A quick sequence showing Rose opening the secret tunnel out or the crypts and then back to the Young Wolf, fighting for his life in the Winterfell courtyard – he was almost overwhelmed and then the Dragon Queen was there, her dragon blasting fire, getting a cheer from the audience. _Come on!_ she cried. _Hurry!_

They escaped from Winterfell together, the Dragon Queen mortally wounded, and Robb Stark had his best scene as he cradled her as she died. _Fuck, he’s a good as I thought he’d be_, Jaime thought, not for the first time.

“She shouldn’t die!” a young voice said. “She shouldn’t die!”

Jaime turned to see Tommen, tears streaming down his face, clutching Myrcella’s arm. “It’s just a movie,” she said to him. “It’s all pretend.”

“She shouldn’t die!” Tommen cried again. Stannis leaned over to speak to him, but Tommen only shook his head, starting to sob.

“Brienne …” Jaime said, and she nodded. He got to his feet and made his way down the aisle to where the Baratheons were sitting. “Tommen, I was going to go and get an iced milk. Can you come and help me choose?”

Tommen nodded, sniffling, and got up. Jaime steered him out of the theatre as, on the screen, the Dragon Queen’s dragon went insane with grief at her death.

The foyer was utterly deserted and, since the evening was given over to a fully catered premiere, the concession stand was unstaffed. Jaime leaned over to find the catch and let himself inside. “Which do you prefer? Chocolate? Strawberry?”

“Chocolate.” Tommen scrubbed his cheeks with his hand. “Are you allowed to be back there?”

Jaime grinned at him. “Probably not, but I don’t see anyone rushing to stop me. Chocolate it is.” He made two chocolate iced milks, added cherries, and handed one to Tommen as he came back out from behind the counter. He leaned against the wall and slid down to sit next to Tommen. “You were right, you know. She shouldn’t have died.”

Tommen put the straw in his mouth and drank. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” Jaime agreed. “And in history? If she was real, she might not have. But she might have. Sometimes unfair things happen. And she was a hero.”

Tommen nodded. “She was brave. But the dragon will be so sad!”

“I know.” Jaime ventured to put his hand on Tommen’s shoulder. “It’s a really sad part of the story. It’s a story about really sad times, but it is just a story. Daenerys is inside, watching the movie.”

“I know.” Tommen drank some more of his iced milk. “It just made me sad.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Jaime said. “But it’s also a big compliment, you know? That you believed the movie enough to be sad?”

Tommen looked down at him. “Can you tell me what happens? So I can be brave enough to go back in?”

“Of course I can.” Jaime patted the floor and Tommen sat down beside him. “Well, first of all, you’re right, the dragon is very sad his mother has died. So sad he tries to kill people. Goldenhand and the Blue Knight have to stop him before people get hurt. And they do, but there’s still the Others to deal with.”

Tommen nodded. “Sometimes pets have to be put down. It’s super sad, but it happens.”

“That’s right. It’s not the dragon’s fault.” Jaime squeezed his shoulder. “So, after that, the Young Wolf realises that he’s the Last Hero after all. He and his sister, She Wolf, finally understands that the prophecy isn’t about dying in battle, it’s about becoming Winter’s King. There’s a really sad goodbye, and the Young Wolf goes off to be turned into the leader of the others, and Goldenhand goes with him.”

Tommen stared at him. “Goldenhand dies too?”

Jaime smiled. “He doesn’t die. He goes with the Young Wolf to help him, because they’ve become friends, even though they started as enemies. And the Young Wolf ends the Long Night by sacrificing himself and becoming the King of Winter, and then he comes back and summons all the dead away. So that’s really sad as well. But Goldenhand doesn’t die.”

Tommen sniffed. “Why not? It’s like, all the heroes die. Why not him?

“Because he has a lot to make up for,” Jaime said. “He has to survive, so he can live a better life.” He squeezed Tommen’s shoulder. “You can’t make up for anything if you’re dead. Do you want to go back in?”

Tommen bit his lip. “Alright. I’m sorry I made you miss part of your movie.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’ve already seen it.”

The fight with the dragon was in full swing when they got back into the theatre. Jaime sent Tommen back to his seat and sat back down with Brienne as on-screen, the dragon tried to turn to get at Brienne. _Me!_ Goldenhand shouted desperately. _Try me. Over here. Me!_

The dragon died, the Blue Knight sobbed, and the survivors of Winterfell emerged from the entrance of the cave to find the Dragon Queen and her dragon dead. She Wolf stumbled over to the body of the Dragon Queen in stunned disbelief, too horrified to even register that her brother was alive. Rose and the Young Wolf embraced desperately. _What will we do without her?_ she asked, and the Young Wolf summoned up a semblance of a smile. _It will be alright, my love. You see, it’s me, the prophecy is about me. I’m Winter’s King._

The farewell was heart-rending as Rose struggled to overcome her shock and grief to be brave for her husband and She Wolf struggled with the knowledge that it was her words that sent her brother to his death. _Winterfell is yours,_ the Young Wolf told her. _I know you’ll rule it well. Rose will be by your side, as she was by mine. _

_I will,_ Rose promised, giving him one last embrace. _I will, my love, my love …_

_I can’t let him face this alone,_ Goldenhand told the Blue Knight, and she nodded understanding. _Carry your sword and your shield with you_.

_Wherever I go_, he promised her.

And then the long, slow walk to meet the Others, the tension expertly ratcheted up with each footfall crunching on the snow. The first sight of the Others, white shadows in the wood with their moonlight swords, got gasps. _I’ll take care of Rose,_ Goldenhand promised the young man about to sacrifice his humanity to save his people, and the Young Wolf replied with a trace of wry humour _She can take care of herself. _His love of and pride in his wife were clear on his face as he took the final step forward and laid his hands on the Crown of Winter, draining away as the visual effects turned his skin to white and his eyes to palest blue. By the time he raised the crown and placed it on his head, he was Winter’s King and the Young Wolf was dead. Jaime could see people wiping their eyes throughout the audience. _He’ll get a nod for best supporting this year for a certainty. _

Goldenhand, alone except for the Young Wolf’s great white dog, trudged back to Winterfell, the Winter King and his Others gliding silently behind him. At Winterfell – and it was still the one thing in the film that really niggled at Jaime, that Olenna had cut the brief scene of She Wolf rallying her bannermen to retake the castle, because it really wasn’t clear why they’d gone back there and how Goldenhand knew of it – the Blue Knight was fighting valiantly to defend the ruined walls with the bannermen of the North and Goldenhand’s forces. Olenna teased the possibility that Goldenhand would arrive too late, but only a little. The Winter King raised his hands and the dead fell, only dead men once more. On the ramparts, Rose choked back a cry at the sight of what her husband had become and She Wolf held her. _You must lead,_ Rose told her as her tears streamed silently down her cheeks. _You must be brave. _

_How can I be brave when I’m afraid? _She Wolf asked, and Rose told her _that is the only time you _can_ be brave. _

As the Others faded back into the distance, a hint of dawn began to lighten the horizon behind Winterfell, and Goldenhand walked forward to the Blue Knight. She was bloodied, dirty, exhausted, but her smile as she took off her helmet was radiant, Brienne’s own whole-hearted joy. Goldenhand brushed a snowflake from her cheek – eighteen takes, that had been, until the single fake snowflake behaved itself – and smiled back.

_What now?_ she asked, hoping and fearing in equal part.

_Whatever we choose_, Goldenhand told her. He leaned forward and kissed her gently. _Henceforth, whatever we choose._

The camera pulled back and away as the sun began to rise beyond a ruined Winterfell, She Wolf and Rose briefly visible directing repairs, and then as Goldenhand and the Blue Knight kissed in the wreckage of the gate a sweetly triumphant version of the theme swelled, and dawn broke on the North. 

And for the first time since he’d played the Dragon Knight at the age of eight, Jaime Lannister found himself on the receiving end of a standing ovation. 


	149. Brienne LX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning.

“Wake up, wench,” Jaime said cheerfully. “I bring coffee and five-comet reviews.”

Brienne rolled over. “I didn’t even hear the alarm.” She blinked at the window. “Jaime, it’s still dark out.”

“Peck picked the papers up from that twenty-hour place near Lion Gate,” Jaime told her. “They always get them first.”

Brienne took the coffee mug he held out and surreptitiously checked the time on her phone. _Gods be good, it’s not even the hour of the nightingale. _“That’s not fair on Peck,” she said. “You could have looked them up on the weirnet.”

“Not the same.” Jaime flung himself down on the bed and unfolded the first paper, rifling through the pages. “And I gave Peck the rest of the day off. Editorials, books, television – film, here we are. Ready?”

Brienne sipped her coffee and nodded.

“According to Osgrey Standfast of the _Highgarden Herald_, _Oathkeeper _is _a triumphant return to form by veteran director Olenna Tyrell._” He grinned. “She’ll hate that. _Her sure touch enlivens and enlightens what had the potential to be a turgid and incomprehensible period drama. Instead, _Oathkeeper_ is a pulse-pounding action extravaganza with a strong emotional heart driving its narrative. Robb Stark as the Young Wolf brings vulnerability and tenderness to what could have been merely a stock hero, and Margaery Tyrell as his wife Rose displays a quiet dignity and courage that elevates her part far beyond the standard wife-or-girlfriend role. Stalwart veterans such as Jeor Mormont, and rising stars like Asha Greyjoy, Daenerys Targaryen and Sarella Sand also delight. Most surprising, and surprisingly moving, though, is Jaime Lannister as Goldenhand the Just. Fans familiar with his string of roles as sneering, cynical villains will be astounded by the range Lannister displays as he brings Goldenhand to life as a complex man with a complicated past. Equally impressive is Brienne Tarth in her first role. Like many, I questioned Ms Tyrell’s decision to cast an inexperienced novice as the Blue Knight, a move that smacked of stunt casting after the high-profile #BrienneBlueKnight campaign. I am happy to be wrong. She is entirely convincing as the famously honourable and courageous mythic first female knight –_ mythic, hah! I’ll raven him a reading list – _motivated not by a love of violence but a deep-seated protectiveness. It doesn’t hurt that she looks the part, and wears armour as if she was born to do it, and I’m sure it also didn’t hinder her performance that she and her co-star are a couple both on and off the screen. The film’s greatest triumph, however, is inarguably its story: a retelling of the Long Night that breaks new ground rather than re-treading the stale narrative path that we have all seen so many times before. Five comets, and my bet for Best Picture this year._”

“That’s wonderful, Jaime,” Brienne said. “They could have said a bit more about the others, though.”

“Next, the _Westerlands Weekly_.” He thumbed through the pages. “This won’t be quite so complimentary, Lewys Lydden doesn’t like me and considers it his duty to the Westerlands to sneer at anything that comes from the Reach. Let’s see … _Oathkeeper is an above-average historical epic in an over-crowded genre. Perhaps unsurprisingly in a film helmed by Olenna Tyrell and part-penned by Alys Karstark, Oathkeeper is an overtly feminist and feminised retelling of the Long Night legend –_ he spelled it with a _k_, I think that disqualifies him from having an opinion – _which plays up the emotional lives of its male protagonists and expands the scope of its heroines. However, Oathkeeper deftly avoids the pitfalls of girl-power speeches or stoic women warriors, allowing its female characters to express fear, grief and vulnerability as well as strength and courage. The central pairing of Goldenhand and the Blue Knight, played by husband-and-wife Jaime Lannister and Brienne Tarth, have undeniable (and unsurprising) chemistry and Robb Stark and Margaery Tyrell convincingly sell the deep affection and respect between their characters. The stand-out star of the film, however, is the action sequences, in particular the climactic Battle for Winterfell, largely filmed on location under trying conditions for cast and crew. Ms Tyrell has largely eschewed the sadly fashionable technique of editing action as if it’s a RookTube music video, instead letting the physical competence of her leads and stuntmen shine through in long single shots, while the special effects of Doran Martell’s Lemonwood studios are masterful. Four comets._” Jaime tossed the paper aside. “If Lewys Lydden was forced to give it four comets, it must be a masterpiece.”

“It _is_ a masterpiece,” Brienne said.

“The _Stormlands Shout_ says you are _revelatory in a role we do not usually see on our screens, a woman warrior with a tender heart. The unfolding romance between the Blue Knight and Goldenhand is the beating heart of the film and is sure to launch Ms Tarth’s career while revitalising Mr Lannister’s. Rejecting the trend towards nihilistic bleakness in so many recent historical epics, Oathkeeper does not avoid tragedy or contrive an unrealistically happy ending, but delivers a powerful statement about the importance of hope, love, honour and courage. Robb Stark also deserves a mention, and possibly an Iron Throne nomination, for his courageous portrait of the legendary Young Wolf as a man struggling to overcome his weaknesses rather than the iron jawed hero the role would have been in the hands of his father, the late Eddard Stark. I was genuinely surprised by the ingenious solution Oathkeeper presented to the dilemma of the Long Night, a shock reveal that would not have been possible with a less subtle and nuanced performance_. Five comets from the _Stormlands Shout_ as well.”

“Is there more coffee?”

“Wench, for the revelatory woman warrior with a tender heart, there is all the coffee in Essos. I’ll even run downstairs to the coffee shop and get you one of the fancy ones with a design on the top.” He grinned at her. “A sword, of course.”

Brienne smiled. “I don’t know if they could do a sword. And I’ll get it.”

Jaime bounced up and took her mug before she could get out from under the sheets. “You will not, you will continue to lounge decadently like the movie star you are.”

“Jaime …” Brienne said, laughing. “If I’m a movie star, what are you?” She reached out and picked up another of the papers as Jaime disappeared back to the kitchen. “This one’s the _Norvos News_.” She thumbed through it quickly until she found the _Culture_ section. “_Daenerys Targaryen, who so recently received rave reviews for her performance in The Harpy’s Son at the Great Pyramid Theatre in Meereen, has turned in another powerhouse performance in a part that criminally underuses her skills,_” she read out, raising her voice so Jaime could hear her over the coffee-maker. “_As the Dragon Queen, Ms Targaryen embodies leadership, courage and compassion, only to be unceremoniously killed off for reasons of plot before the final act. The undeniable strengths of Oathkeeper_ –_ tight pacing, action sequences more stunning than we’ve seen in many years, astonishing effects and many fine performances – are undermined by the film-maker’s insistence that women can neither rule nor fight._” She paused as Jaime came back with her coffee. “Jaime, I don’t think this person has even seen the film!”

He chuckled, handing her the coffee. “Daenerys grew up in Essos. Of course they’re on the side of the local-girl_-_made-good.”

Brienne sipped her coffee and read on. “_At least Oathkeeper allows more than one female character to survive the film, a kindness not granted its male protagonist. The romance between supporting characters Goldenhand and Blue Knight is touching, but Oathkeeper squanders the sizzling romantic tension between Robb Stark and Ms Targaryen as the Wolf King and the Dragon Queen. Three comets._”

Jaime laughed like a loon. “They would have given my father’s version a rave review, no doubt.” He picked up the last newspaper. “The _Sunspear Sun_ says _Sarella Sand dazzles in her first significant role as She Wolf, the courageous young woman whose insight and wisdom leads her people to victory in Oathkeeper, a new telling of the Long Night. She is ably assisted by strong support from Robb Stark as her brother and Margaery Tyrell as her goodsister, among others. With outstanding special effects provided by Doran Martell’s expert Lemonwood team, Oathkeeper is a lean and muscular retelling of one of the Seven Kingdom’s most important myths, the Long Night allegory, that foregrounds the importance of family loyalty and human connection in the face of looming disaster. Olenna Tyrell deserves all the accolades that come her way for drawing vivid performances from her cast, most notably newcomer Brienne Tarth – and most surprisingly Jaime Lannister, long considered an actor of limited range. He proves those critics wrong with a touching performance as Goldenhand, a man long torn between love and duty, finding a way to follow both in the middle of cataclysmic disaster. Five comets._”He tossed the papers aside. “_Golden Rose_ said you were equally stunning on the red carpet and on the screen, although Sarella got their _best dressed_ title, _King’s Landing Times_ predicts record box-office, and _Gulltown Gossip _is, well, about what you’d expect. _Freefolk Fortnightly_ won’t come out until the middle of next week, but I’d be surprised if it wasn’t complimentary.” He grinned at her. “About the location, if nothing else. The big reviews – _Kingdoms, Rolling Runestone, _that sort of thing – should land this weekend. And the TV critics, of course.” 

Brienne finished her coffee and set the mug on the bedside table. “You don’t mind about the Novos one?”

He shook his head. “I do not. Tyrion ravened me a rough translation of the reviews in the _Pentos Press_ and the _Tyrosh Times_, both with much larger circulations than the _Norvos News_, and they both gave it five comets and said you were wonderful. And he said I will be, and I quote, unbearably self-satisfied with what _Kingdoms _has to say and annoying smug over _Rolling Runestone’s_ review. Osgrey Standfast isn’t going to say something different on _Good Morning Westeros_ than he did in the _Herald_ and Portifer Woodwright gives five comets to any film with a sword-fight in it.” He leaned over and kissed her. “We have a hit on our hands, wench, if the critics have anything to do with it. How do you want to celebrate?”

“Four more hours sleep,” Brienne said. 

“I can certainly agree with that program, but do you mind if I take Tess for a run instead of joining you? I don’t know if I could sit still for four hours at the moment, let alone lie down.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” She smiled at him. “I need a proper morning hug before you go, though.”

Jaime rolled over and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. “Good morning, wench.”

Brienne curled into his embrace. “Good morning.”


	150. Ravens XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a weirnet message board:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> specific chapter warning for the use of some homophobic terms and for internet sexism.

UNPOPULAR OPINION BUT: [SpOILERS OATHKEEPER]

I know I’m going to get slammed by the SJK crowd but Oathkeeper is shit. First of all, everyone knows that Oathkeeper belonged to Goldenhand. I didn’t mind them including the Blue Knight even though she did NOTHING during the Long Knight but with Goldenhand’s sword? No way! And they ruined her anyway by shoe-horning in a love story just so Lannister could smooch his wife on camera. And that ending? The Young Wolf _won_ the Long Knight, whether it was magic or just Wildling raiders. He’s just about the only one mentioned fighting the Cold Gods! He didn’t go join them, whatever they were! They only did that so they could have their girlpower ending with the Queen in the North, like she even existed backthen. It’s ridiculous to think a woman sat on the throne before the sixth or seventh century. And the character of She Bear is such an obvious invention to be politically correct. Not to mention the Dragon Queen riding a dragon at the time of the Long Knight when they’d been extinct for centuries. No-one should see this movie if they care anything about historical accuracy. – RedAnt44

:You misspelled Long Night. – Starfall

:Nitpicking about spelling without engaging with my argument? Smells like you know I’m right. – RedAnt44

:I just don’t get why they have to ruin a perfectly good platonic relationship with cheap romance. The Dragon Queen would have been a much better choice, plus Dany Targaryen is HOT – Greenwall

: IKR – RedAnt44

: I don’t get why you’d want to ruin the story of a woman risking her life to save others by making her someone’s girlfriend, except sexism – FireBlood2

:What’s sexist is saying her story would be ruined if she had a love story – Greenwall

:And yet you said just that about the Blue Knight – Fireblood2

: it might interest you to know that there’s no reliable date of the extinction of dragons given the difficulty of carbon dating bone samples impenetrable to modern technology. And Barth’s Chronicle mentions people riding the larger ones. – FireBlood2

: No Queen before the sixth century? Nymeria of Dorne would like a word –Stiletto

: You have to be deliberately ignorant not to know that the women of Bear Island were all trained to fight from an early age. Archaeologists and forensic anthropologists have proved it. – GreatBear

: how can arhcaelogists and anthrolopogists prove anything about what training women had thousands of years ago lol – RedAnt44

: by examining skeletal remains for traces of wear left by repetitive action, that can be matched exactly to unique actions like swinging a sword in combat or carrying a shield in a guard position. [ETA] Also we kept excellent records – GreatBear

: well I really enjoyed the movie even if it isn’t perfectly historically accurate. The Blue Knight might not have fought in the Long Night, but she was knighted not long after it according to Ebrose, the supernatural explanation for what happened is obviously far-fetched but at least it’s consistent with what people wrote at the time, and I for one enjoyed seeing female characters representing the different roles women filled at the time, including leadership whether queen or not. And the fight scenes are some of the best I’ve seen since The Magnificent Seven – Goldrose3

: I agree. Also it’s nice to see an action film where people have realistic emotions to things like nearly dying or losing a friend. – SlungStag

: out of interest, how do you think the Young Wolf ended the Long Night? –LionGold

: He obviously killed them all. – RedAnt44

:All those magical creatures with the power to raise the dead to fight for them? By himself? – LionGold

: he had an army – RedAnt44

:and every soldier in that army who fell immediately joined the other side. Sounds like a militarily tricky situation – LionGold

:Look it’s obviously a story, there were no risen dead, it was wildlings or sthg – RedAnt44

:A Freefolk invasion of sufficient size to depopulate the north for generations, defeated by one surviving lord and his bannermen? – LionGold

:The whole generation thing is an exaggeration. – RedAnt44

: Not according to the mass graves archaeologists have been finding for several hundred years – LionGold

:whatever man, you’re clearly just stanning Lannister now – RedAnt44

: I find it endlessly fascinating that The Magnificent Seven is praised on these discussion boards, yet there is absolutely no more historical evidence for the events of the film or the Morningstar’s role in them than there is for the Blue Knight wielding Oathkeeper (at least one chronicle describes Goldenhand giving her a sword, after all) and participating in the Long Night (first recorded in the 6th century like many others). The same syndrome seems to afflict films like the recent Gravedigger and The Bells. Could it be that it has something to do with the fact that The Magnificent Seven is about 7 heterosexual Westerosi men performing traditionally masculine roles, while Oathkeeper features women prominently, Gravedigger explores the role of trauma and toxic masculinity in the age of ice and fire, and The Bells focuses directly on the experience of a gay man? – TwoGriffins

:Fuck off white knight – RedAnt44

:Extraordinary irony that on a board devoted to the age of ice and fire, some consider ‘white knight’ an insult – TwoGriffins.

:Get fucked faggot – RedAnt44

:Thank you, I plan to, after a nice dinner and some flirting – TwoGriffins

:Thank you, finally some honesty! The film is completely ruined by insisting on so many totally unrealistic female characters just so the politically correct crowd will applaud “strong women characters!” I just want to go to the movies without having an agenda shoved down my throat. –HagNay

:Interesting choice of words –Two Griffins.

: It’s impossible to believe anything about a movie so unrealistic that is has the Kingslayer as the hero. I mean, the man who pushed a child out of a window? – RedRob22

: You are aware that Brave Lady Stoneheart was a movie, not a documentary, and that child is now an adult man and perfectly well? – Starfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, if you want to suggest other things that might be said on this weirnet thread in the comments, go wild! I'll edit the chapter to include them if they fit. I don't spend much time on those parts of the interwebs infested by Bad Takes on Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth, so if you do, feel free to pitch in! Also this was perfectly formatted in my master document but AO3 won't accept it, so ... sorry.


	151. Brienne LXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interviews and grumkins.

“Your movie has become the subject of some controversy,” Anya Waynwood said.

Brienne shifted on the studio couch, bristling, but Jaime gripped her hand tightly and answered with a smile. “There’s always some debate about historical events, but I think the reviews, and the box-office, speak for themselves.”

“Olenna Tyrell has praised your role in developing the story in recent interviews. Do you take any responsibility for making the Long Night so female-centric?”

“I’m proud of it,” Jaime said with another smile. “Regardless of which individual women were present at the historical event we know as the Long Night – and whatever caused it, archaeological digs have established it was absolutely devastating – half the population was female. Everything we know about the age of ice and fire indicates that women routinely stepped into what we now consider to be male roles, either because they were only daughters, because they were widows, or because in times of war there was more work than people to do it. They were farmers, they ran businesses, they were in charge of castles and holdfasts. Those women had stories, and I’m very proud that _Oathkeeper_ tells some of those stories, even if the individual characters don’t necessarily represent real historical women.” He squeezed Brienne’s hand and gave her a brilliant smile. “I for one don’t want to keep seeing films in which women are either victims or villains, or mysterious objects of desire. And I think the _Oathkeeper’s_ reception shows I’m not alone.”

“So you admit _Oathkeeper_ has an agenda?”

Jaime shrugged. “An agenda to tell a good story, that reflects what we know of history, and that’s relevant to audiences today? Sure, it has that agenda. But anyone who argues that representing women on screen is a _problem_ with a movie has an agenda, too.” He leaned forward a little. “And let’s be honest. The _controversy_ you’re talking about is basically anonymous criticism on the weirnet, some of it in the most blatantly misogynist terms. You’ve been trying to set this interview up for a sennight, Anya. Do you really want to spend it asking me to discuss the opinions of people who are upset with _Oathkeeper_ because they didn’t get to see Daenerys Targaryen’s teats?”

“Jaime!” Brienne hissed.

“We’ll cut that, obviously,” Anya said drily. “Brienne. You must be pleased to have received such positive reviews for your very first role.”

“I’m pleased the film is receiving such positive reviews,” Brienne said, glad her voice didn’t shake. _Don’t look directly at the camera_, she reminded herself. “The Blue Knight is such an important figure in our history, for one thing, and then everyone worked so hard on _Oathkeeper_, not just the actors but everyone in the crew, right down to the caterers who kept us fed and made sure we had a hot drink on those cold night shoots. I’m very glad to know that I did a good enough job not to let all those people down.” 

“And what’s your reaction to those who say that killing off the Dragon Queen so that the Young Wolf can be the Last Hero is inherently sexist?”

“First of all, the Dragon Queen is an entirely fictional character, although based on royal women from the first centuries after conquest,” Brienne said as calmly as she could. “The Young Wolf is not, although there’s very little information about what role he played in the Great Succession Crisis at the end of the third century and how he ended the Long Night at the beginning of the fourth. It would be dishonest to displace the Young Wolf’s chronicled role in order to elevate an invented character. Secondly, it’s clear in _Oathkeeper_ that the Dragon Queen has a fundamentally important role in the War for the Dawn. It was the age of ice _and fire_ after all, and the prophecy in _Oathkeeper_ makes reference to that. She lays down her life to save the Young Wolf in one of the most moving acts of bravery in the film. How is that sexist? Because she dies? Women have fought and died to defend themselves, their families, the things they believe in, for as long as we have recorded history. It’s just most of the time they didn’t have arms and armour, or dragons.” 

“So you would argue that _Oathkeeper_ isn’t a sexist film?”

Brienne couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know how people – the same people, sometimes – can say _Oathkeeper _is pushing a feminist agenda and is sexist at the same time. It’s a story about people, and several of those people are women, and their stories are as important and as significant as all the other stories. They don’t all end happily. Is that sexist?”

“Jaime,” Anya said. “One of the criticisms levelled at your film is that it features a romance as its central plot. What do you say to those critics?”

“Well, first of all I’d say that those criticisms haven’t been levelled anywhere except in certain small corners of the weirnet,” Jaime said. “And secondly, I’d say that love and human connection are a fundamental part of what’s important in life, and that was as true in the age of ice and fire as it is today. A story that leaves them out is only half the story it could be.”

“On a lighter note, what was the funniest thing to happen during filming?” Anya asked.

“My costume ripped and I did three takes with bright blue thermals on display,” Jaime said with a grin. “And my dog learned to open the door of our trailer from the inside, ran onto the set, and tried to defend me from Sandor Clegane in zombie make-up.”

“And what was it like to film a record number of night shoots, in a Northern winter, Brienne?”

“It was very demanding, for the crew as well as the cast. But they took very good care of us and made sure we had the chance to warm up between takes.” She shrugged a little. “I was in the Gold Cloaks, and the Rainbow Guard. I’m used to night shifts.”

“Is it true you did your own stunts?” Anya asked her.

“Well, I was able to,” Brienne said. “So it made sense, it was much easier for filming.” 

“So when the audience sees the Blue Knight fighting, it’s actually you doing the fighting?”

“Jaime as well,” Brienne said. She smiled. “Although there weren’t actually any ice-spiders or dragons. Stuntmen, though. Our trainer, Sandor Clegane, was also the stunt co-ordinator for _Oathkeeper_ so a great deal of the credit for the fight sequences should go to him and our excellent stuntmen.”

“What was it like to work with the famous Queen of Thorns?”

“I don’t have anything to compare it to, of course, but I can definitely say that neither _Oathkeeper_, nor the Blue Knight, would have been half as good without her. And I don’t know how she came to be called the Queen of Thorns – she was perfectly lovely.”

“Olenna Tyrell is among the best directors I’ve ever worked with,” Jaime said, and gave Anya a grin. “And you know I’ve worked with a lot. She’s thorough, she picks up every detail without missing the bigger picture, she’s consultative but clear on what she wants. And she’s always mindful of the welfare of the cast and crew.” The subtext was clear. _Unlike Tywin Lannister_.

“The industry buzz is that _Oathkeeper_ is going to receive quite a few mentions when the Iron Throne nominations are announced tonight,” Anya said. “What do you think of your chances? Do you expect to be nominated yourself? How would you feel if you missed out?”

Jaime squeezed Brienne’s hand. “Look, I’m nervous, and excited about the nominations, of course. I think _Oathkeeper_ is a terrific film and everyone who worked on it did a fantastic job. Like any actor, I’ve dreamed of winning an Iron Throne, and just to be nominated is always a tremendous honour. But even if I’m not, even if _Oathkeeper_ doesn’t get a single nomination, I’m still extremely proud of the film and of being a part of it, and I’ll be happy that it’s made, made so well, and that so many people have seen and enjoyed it.”

“And what’s next for the two of you? New projects?”

“We’re busy moving house at the moment, in the middle of all this,” Jaime said. “But yes, I have a few ideas, and have had a few calls.” 

“And you, Brienne?” Anya asked.

Brienne laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. Get a job, I suppose.”

“Well, best of luck to you both, for tonight and for the future,” Anya said.

“And we’re out,” someone said. 

Jaime unclipped the mic from his collar. “I expected better from you, Anya,” he said, “than making this interview a platform for those basement-dwelling pin-dick assholes on the ice and fire boards.”

“Calm down, Jaime.” Anya picked up the glass of water by her chair and took a long drink. “I flew to Oldtown yesterday and filmed interviews with Agrivane and Theobald. When this goes to air the day after tomorrow, your remarks are going to be intercut with me trying to look interested while learning about third century female blacksmiths and the women of Bear Island. And the other story on the program that day is a deep-dive into weirnet misogyny, using what’s being said about _Oathkeeper_ as a jumping-off point.”

Brienne felt Jaime relax. “Oh.”

Anya gave him a smile. “You’ve always been generous with comment when I asked, Jaime. And it may surprise you to know, but I do know what it’s like to be a woman on screen targeted by the grumkins.”

“Is it very bad?” Brienne asked Jaime as they got into the elevator. “What’s being said?”

He sighed, and put his arm around her waist. “About what I expected. About what _you_ would expect, from the ice and fire board. Half-educated halfwits whose ideas of the age of ice and fire are entirely based on fifty-year-old novels. People who still think I murdered Aerys for some personal nefarious motive and who are outraged I’m allowed to play a hero. Men upset that movies exist that have speaking roles for women. Outraged complaints that there’s kissing in a swords-and-dragons epic.” He leaned up to kiss her cheek. “Just as many sane people, though, so that’s something. But it’s a worry if it’s leaking through enough for Anya to want to address it.”

“Will it affect the Iron Thrones?”

Jaime shrugged. “Probably, but I expect it will be a wash in the end. Some people will be more likely to vote for _Oathkeeper_ to show support, some people will be less likely because they’re scared off.”

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said miserably.

Jaime turned to look at her as the elevator doors opened to let them out into the lobby. “What for, wench?”

“I was the one who wanted you to put more about the women in. And if it was a proper action star playing the Blue Knight –”

“Wench.” Jaime tugged her out of the elevator before the doors could close again. “I wanted to _put more about the women in_ because _Mad Mors: Demon Road_ broke every box-office record in existence, which I checked after you told me why you don’t like modern action films. And every critic in existence has agreed you were the perfect Blue Knight.” He let go of her and pulled out his phone. “Let me remind you that _Rolling Runestone_ said that your performance _transcends the difference between fiction and reality, as we watch the woman celebrated for her bravery in defence of others performing acts of bravery in defence of others._”

Brienne looked around, hoping no-one had overheard. “Hush, Jaime.”

“And _Kingdoms_ described you as _the embodiment of chivalric ideals from her impressive stature to her tenderness._” He kissed her gently. “Don’t fret about the grumkins. We made a terrific film together. That’s what matters, not some patch-faced fools who think women never lifted anything heavier than an embroidery needle until fifty years ago.”

Brienne nodded, but the worry lodged in the corner of her mind and wouldn’t be shifted. For the rest of the day and through the evening she kept returning to it, like prodding a sore tooth with her tongue to see if it still hurt and learning every time that it did. _I ruined Jaime’s film. Me, my ideas … I ruined Jaime’s film. I ruined Jaime’s chances of winning an Iron Throne award. _She tried to tell herself that it was nonsense, that Jaime was right, that the box office receipts and the good reviews meant more than a few people complaining on the weirnet, but it was no good. After an hour of lying awake and staring at the ceiling, she crept out of bed as quietly as she could, went into the living room and turned on her laptop.


	152. Jaime LVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weirnets and grumkins and snarks, oh my! NSFW

_It was extremely pleasant to lie wrapped around Brienne under thick furs in Winterfell, despite what he knew faced them both tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that, should they be lucky enough to survive that long. For tonight, the castle was secure. For tonight, they were off watch. For tonight, Brienne was sleeping peacefully, unharmed and safe in his arms. _

_Tess whined, prodding his arm with her cold nose. _

_“Hush,” Jaime told her, hoping she hadn’t disturbed Brienne. “Hush, Tess.”_

_She whined again, nudging him harder, and he opened his eyes and rolled over –_

In his bed in his King’s Landing apartment. Which was empty, apart from him.

Tess sat beside the bed, staring at him. She whined again, and then padded to the door and stopped, looking back at him.

“What is it?” Jaime asked. _Seven Hells, is something on fire? _He’d read stories of dogs saving their owners when a fire broke out. _But I would have heard the fire-alarm, and even if I’d forgotten to replace the batteries, Brienne wouldn’t have. _ Something was clearly wrong, though. Tess was still staring at him expectantly. He got out of bed and pulled on a pair of pants. “What is it, girl?” She turned and went out into the living room, and Jaime followed. Brienne was sitting on the couch in the dark in a T-shirt and her smallclothes, the blue glow from the laptop on her lap the only light in the room. Tess went over to her and nosed her arm, whining again. “Brienne?” Jaime said.

She closed her laptop sharply. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

There was something wrong about her voice, something that scattered the last traces of sleep from Jaime’s mind. “Brienne?” He followed Tess around the couch. Even in the diffuse light from the King’s Landing skyscrapers drifting through the windows, Jaime could see that Brienne’s cheeks were streaked with tears. “Brienne.” He sat down next to her. “What is it, what’s happened – is it Selwyn?”

She shook her head, scrubbing furiously at her cheeks with her hands. “No. I’m just being stupid.”

Jaime put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him. “Brienne. I feel like you’re maybe upset about something. Is there anything you need me to do?” She burst into tears, sobbing against his neck. Jaime held her tightly as Tess half-climbed onto his lap, pressing her head against Brienne and then licking her arm. “Whatever it is, we’ll solve it, alright? Whatever it is, it’ll be alright.”

She took a deep breath. “I really am just being stupid.”

“Alright. But can I know what you’re being stupid about?”

“I shouldn’t have looked,” she mumbled against his shoulder. “It’s the first thing you told me.”

_Oh, Brienne. _He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Ravengram?” She nodded. “RookTube?” She nodded again. “Oh, wench. It’s alright. It’s alright. It’s just stupid people. Stupid people who don’t know you, or anything about you.”

“I know,” she cried, and began to sob again. “I’m s-s-sorry, I’m s-s-sorry, I know better, I d-d-do!”

“Don’t be, love, don’t be, please, it’s alright, you’re alright, it’s upsetting, it’s alright.” He held her as tightly as he could. “They’re patch-faced fools, but it’s still upsetting, I know, I know.”

“I ruined your film!” she wailed.

“No, you made it perfect.” In the bedroom, Jaime’s phone squawked, but he ignored it. “Brienne. Stupid people say stupid things. I know it’s hard to ignore them, I _know_, you know I know.” His phone squawked again. “You didn’t ruin _Oathkeeper_. You _made _it. It wouldn’t be half the film it is without you.” Tess climbed down from his lap and wandered away. “All those people who say stupid things would say the same things whoever was in the role, and if I’d made the film they’d want to see, it would have been terrible.”

“They’re s-s-saying –”

“Fucking nonsense, is what they’re saying,” Jaime said. “Brienne. I know what they’re saying and it’s nonsense.” Tess came pattering back and put her paw on his knee. “Wench. Even if you don’t believe that I would have told you, despite the fact that I promised you I would, do you really think the Queen of Thorns would have let you hurt her last film?” Brienne gave a sniffling laugh. “Brienne –” His phone squawked again, much closer, and Tess ducked her head and deposited it in his lap. “Brienne, it’s –” His phone sounded again, twice.

“You should check that,” Brienne said.

“I don’t fucking care about –” _Squawk! Squawk!_

“Jaime, it might be Tyrion, it might be important, it might be the children.” Brienne straightened up, rubbing at her eyes.

“Tyrion would call, not raven, so would Stannis, if it was about the children.” Jaime picked up his phone anyway and thumbed it on.

From Little Bro, _you deserve every second of this, bear of great brain. _From Robb Wolf, _always grateful for the opportunity. _From Queen of Thorns _young man you did well. As did I._

Cat Claw had sent simply _thank you_. From Pegleg, _congratulations and thank you for the chance_. Shoes had written _just so long as you win in both categories_.

“What is it?” Brienne asked.

“I think it might be to do with Iron Throne nominations,” Jaime said, a little numbly. “They’re usually online around now.” Jeyne Dove had sent _I couldn’t have done it without your help. _Joy’d ravened _I’d ask for a raise but 10% of what you’ll earn next year will buy me a house. Congratulations. _From The Bull _congratulations and thank you for the opportunity you gave me. _What the ravens implied … _it couldn’t be possible. _

_Could it?_

“But it can’t be,” he said after a moment, scrolling down the screen. A simple _congrats _from Myrcella, who was surely up past her bedtime. Stannis B’s raven read _congratulations, don’t let it go to your head. _ “Or your phone would be blowing up, too.”

Brienne shook her head. “On silent at night.” She glanced at him, and despite her swollen eyes and pink nose, she smiled. “Legacy of your fears about merfolk.”

Dawnstar, Onion, Wheels and BBold had ravened variations on _congratulations_ too. “Can I use your laptop?” Jaime asked, and when Brienne nodded he pulled it into his lap and opened it. The screen woke up to Ravengram, _#notmyblueknight_ in the search bar, but Jaime ignored that just for the moment, opened the 3ER search progam and typed in _iron throne nominations. _

“Seven fucking hells,” he said after a moment. “Seven bloody buggering fucking hells.”

“Jaime?” Brienne raised herself up. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tugged her close. “Nothing. The opposite. Nominations for Best Picture – _Once Upon A Time In Dorne_, _The Hawk and the Dove_, _The Wards Are Alright_ and _Oathkeeper_.”

“Oh Jaime –” Brienne started.

He tightened his arm around her shoulders and talked over her. “For best actor, Oswell Whent for _Once Upon a Time in Dorne, _Edmure Tully for _Pretty in Platemail_, Barristan Selmy for _The Best_ _Exotic Mantarys Hotel,_ and Jaime Lannister for _Oathkeeper_.” He took a deep breath. “Best Actress, Taena Myr for _The Wards Are Alright_, Jeyne Westerling for _The Hawk and the Dove_, Shella Whent for _The Best_ _Exotic Mantarys Hotel_, and Brienne Tarth for _Oathkeeper_.”

“What?” Brienne sat bolt upright.

“There’s more. Olenna got a nom for Best Director. Marge _and_ Sarella _and _Daenerys are nominated in the Supporting Actress category and Robb in Supporting Actor. And me, actually, for _Once Upon A Time In Dorne_ and for _The Hawk and the Dove_ as well. Willas and Alys for Best Original Screenplay. The Mance for Best Original Song. We’re also up for Best Cinematography, Makeup and Hair, Costume Design, Visual Effects, Film Editing, Sound Editing, and Production Design. In fact, I think we’ve been nominated in every category _Oathkeeper_ is eligible for.” He took another deep breath. “Wench, I’d have to check, but I’m pretty sure it’s a record.”

“Well, it’s a wonderful film –”

“Wench.” Jaime set the laptop aside and turned to wrap his arms around his adorably innocent wife. “_It’s a record_, or close to it. There’s three films in the entire history of the Iron Thrones to have even close to this many nominations. _All Quiet On The Dothraki Front_, _Gone with the Winds of Winter_, and _Melantine._” He kissed her. “If we win in even a third of those categories, _Oathkeeper_ will be taught in film schools. So will you _stop_ worrying about you or your ideas or your opinions _ruining_ my film, the Iron Thrones Council has essentially just declared that they consider it a _masterpiece_.”

“Oh.”

“_Oh_, indeed.” He kissed her again. “This means doing more publicity, you realise?”

Brienne sighed, but nodded. “I can do it. For the film.”

“And the grumkins are going to be incensed all over again.” He tapped the laptop with one finger. “So no Ravengram or RookTube comments or anything else that Pia hasn’t vetted. _I_ limit what I let myself look at, and I’ve got thicker skin than the Grey Giant. Alright?” She nodded again, and Jaime gathered her close. “We’ll need to expand Lannistarth Productions by at least a few more staff, I think. Joy’s been doing sterling work, but she’s going to need an assistant. And the next week weeks are going to tax Peck and Pia. What do you think about hiring Pod? To help Pia with your stuff.”

“I like Podrick,” Brienne said. “But won’t Tyrion mind?”

Jaime chuckled. “I’ll tell Tyrion it’s all his fault I’ve become so successful and it’s only fair he makes some sacrifices to help me manage. And Peck can get onto an agency to find himself and Joy some help.”

Brienne raised her head and smiled at him. “You know, I did wonder when you hired Pia if it was all going to end up with us travelling in a convoy with more staff than would fit in one car.”

“Good point, we’ll need at least one more car.”

“Jaime …” Brienne said, in the softly amused way she had that always made Jaime’s heart do a funny little flip in his chest.

“Two?” he said, and she began to laugh.

“You and your nonsense,” she said tenderly. 

“Three, then,” Jaime said cheerfully, and Brienne pulled him to her and kissed him until they were both breathless. “Take me to bed, wench, so we can celebrate our success.”

“Celebrate here,” Brienne said huskily. She let go of him long enough to yank her T-shirt off over her head and then grabbed the waistband of his pants and began to tug them down. Jaime helped her, enthusiastically, slightly hindered by the fact that her bare breasts were far too tempting for him not to lean down and take one dusky pink nipple in his mouth. “Oh – too hard –” Brienne gasped, and he gentled his mouth. She worked his pants down far enough for him to kick them off and then slid her smallclothes down in one sharp movement, pressing up against him as she raised her hips.

“Fast or slow?” Jaime panted, sliding his hand up the inside of her thigh and to where she was already wet and slick and ready.

“Fast,” Brienne said. Her fingers joined his for a moment, and then found his cock and stroked her own moisture over him. She widened her legs and fit him to her. “Fast, please, Jaime, I want you inside me, I want to feel you –” Thanking the seven for the pills he’d bought her in Pentos – not for the first time – Jaime thrust forward. Brienne moaned, back arching, clenching around him, moaned again as he drew back to thrust again. “Jaime, Jaime …” Her fingers dug into his back, her head tossing against the arm of the couch. “Jaime. Jaime!” If there was anything in the whole wide world sexier than the way Brienne said his name when he was bedding her, Jaime didn’t know what it could possibly be.

Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter within him, rising rapidly to the point of no return. “I’m close,” he gasped. “Brienne. Touch yourself.”

“Jaime …” She slid her hand between them. “Oh, Jaime, Jaime!”

And then she was pulsing around him and shuddering beneath him and he was at the edge and over it, his climax pouring through him like the Trident at spring flood as Brienne wrapped her arms around him and held him to her with all her gentle strength.

He collapsed down on top of her, pressing his face to her neck, knowing she was strong enough to take his weight. “Wench,” he said – or tried to say, but the word came out as a slurred moan.

“Mmmm,” Brienne said, burying her fingers in his hair and wrapping her legs around him as well.

Whether he dozed or just drifted in a haze of satisfaction, Jaime wasn’t sure, but after a while the chill roused him. He raised his head. “Bed, wench.” She let him go, and then let him draw her to her feet. Arms around each other, they stumbled back into the bedroom. Brienne shooed Leo off her pillow and tumbled into the bed, pulling Jaime with her. He grabbed the covers and hauled them over both of them.

“I’ll clean the couch tomorrow,” Brienne mumbled, and went slack against him.

Jaime managed to stay awake long enough to wrap his arms around her and then followed her into sleep.


	153. Brienne LXII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving house. NSFW

“Here, let me help.” Brienne took hold of the end of the couch. “If we tilt it up –”

“Wench.” Jaime came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “Stop making the removalists feel inadequate.”

“Well, I can help,” Brienne said, but she let go of the couch and stepped back.

“They’re paid by the hour,” Jaime said. “If you do half their work for them, they’ll be paid half as much.”

She turned to put her arms around his neck. “Honestly, with Sandor’s help, you and I could have –”

Jaime laughed, and then leaned up to kiss her, still laughing. “Wench. This is how it works. We have stupid amounts of money. We pay people to do things we could do for ourselves if we didn’t have stupid amounts of money. Come on. Peck and Garrett can supervise here. Let’s go make sure the new furniture is being put in the right rooms.”

Brienne hesitated, but the expressions of relief on the faces of the men who’d introduced themselves as _Watty_ and _Pello_ decided her. “Alright,” she agreed, and let Jaime steer her out of the door and to the elevator. As the elevator arrived and the doors opened, though, she stopped.

“Wench?”

“I just want to say goodbye,” Brienne said. She felt her cheeks burn. “I know it’s stupid. It’s not like it’s where we met, or anything.”

“It’s not stupid.” Jaime tightened his arms around her. “Come on.” He led her back into the apartment. “Watty, Pello – can you give us a half-hour? On the clock, of course. There’s a coffee shop downstairs.” The two men nodded, and took their leave. The door closed behind them. “Goodbye, living room where I spent far too much time trying not to be turned on by Brienne Tarth.”

Brienne gave a huff of laughter. “Jaime.”

“Goodbye kitchen where Brienne Tarth first told me she thought I was pretty,” Jaime said cheerfully, and Brienne started to laugh. He took her hand and led her into the bedroom. “Goodbye, bedroom where I made Brienne Tarth scream my name so loudly I got a formal letter of complaint from the strata council.”

“Jaime!” Brienne felt herself blush.

Jaime kissed her. “Goodbye, bathroom where I used to hide to jerk off so Brienne Tarth wouldn’t know I got ridiculously hard just looking at her.”

Brienne laughed. “I just thought you needed more fibre in your diet.”

Jaime kissed her again. “Such an innocent.”

“Goodbye guest bedroom where I spent a lot of time pretending my hand was actually your hand,” Brienne said, cheeks scalding. “Not such an innocent.”

“Wench, don’t say such things when we only have half-an-hour before the movers come back.” Jaime wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled his face against her neck. “Seven Hells, if I’d known you were in the next room getting off by thinking about me, I think I might have spontaneously combusted.” 

Brienne tugged his shirt free from his pants and slid her hands under it, running her fingers over his back. “Half-an-hour is enough time.”

Jaime groaned. “A lifetime isn’t enough time where you’re concerned, wench.” He raised his head and captured her mouth with his. He pulled her tighter against him and she could feel how hard he was already. _For me._ She still felt a sort of wonderous joy at the thought, even though she’d learned not to doubt it. The hunger in his kiss, the open need and want on his face, all for her, Brienne Tarth. Jaime left her mouth and trailed kisses down her neck. “How fast do you think I can make you come, wench? And how many times in the five-and-twenty minutes we have left?”

She shivered at his breath ghosting over her skin. “Fast,” she gasped. “And lots.”

“Are you wet for me?”

“Very.”

He yanked at her fly and slipped his fingers inside her pants and smallclothes. “Oh, you’re not lying, wench. You’re close, aren’t you?”

“Yes – Jaime –” Sometimes he liked to tease her, and Brienne enjoyed that too, but he’d learned her body well and right now he was bent on giving her exactly what she ached for, exactly the touch that sent the fire in her blood blazing hotter and hotter with every breath. She clutched at his shoulders, knees trembling. “Jaime.”

He pushed her backwards until she was against the wall, supported by it and his arm around her waist as he kept stroking her. “How close?” he whispered, lips brushing her ear, and her climax crashed over her. She clung to his shoulders, shaking, as he gentled his touch but kept on going. “Is this how you used to touch yourself in that guest bedroom?”

“It wasn’t this good,” Brienne panted, and Jaime gave a smug smile and pressed a little harder. Brienne groaned and strained against him and then the wave of pleasure crested again and she cried out, knees buckling. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmured, holding her up. “I’ve got you.”

She yanked at his belt. “I want you. Jaime, I want you, please …”

“Fuck,” Jaime gasped, pulling her jeans and smallclothes down. “Lift your foot –” He got them mostly off, still tangled around one ankle, and then got his own down enough to free his cock. He leaned into her, fitting them together. “Just ease down.” She did, and he grasped her backside with one hand, and guided her leg around his waist with the other. “Like that, like that – fuck, Brienne, Brienne –” He pushed up into her and she cried out and came again. “Fuck, yes, fuck, yes,” Jaime panted in her ear as he moved hard and fast, fingers digging into her flesh. “So good, so good, fuck –” He groaned and finished with three stuttering thrusts and the heat and the way he moaned his pleasure against her neck took Brienne over the edge again.

Entwined, they slid down the wall to the floor. “That’s what I call a proper goodbye,” Brienne said after a moment.

“Not my best work,” Jaime said, kissing her neck.

Brienne chuckled. “I beg to differ.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “We should get up. And clean up. They’ll be back soon.”

“Mmmm.” He held her close, nestling his head on her shoulder. “In a bit.”

“Jaime.” She untangled herself from him, despite his half-voiced protest, yanked her jeans off her foot, and went to the bathroom to clean herself, bringing him back a damp washcloth. “Here.” She turned her jeans and smallclothes the right way out and put them on as Jaime put himself to rights.

He got to his feet, tugged her close, and whispered, “I’m going to take you against every wall in both our houses, wench.”

It shouldn’t have been possible after how thoroughly he’d satisfied her, but a flash of heat shot through Brienne at his words. She leaned into him. “That’s a lot of walls.”

He chuckled. “I’m up to the challenge.”

Brienne reluctantly pulled away as the front door opened and Pello or Watty cleared his throat loudly. “I’ll hold you to it,” she said, surprised by her own boldness, took his hand and led him back out into the living room. “We’ll leave you to it,” she told Pello and Watty.

Jaime ravened Peck from the car to tell him that he and Garrett should make sure the removalists got everything needed from the flat as Brienne drove them across King’s Landing to the Hill of Rhaenys. Podrick and Lewys were waiting for them, Pod having had the foresight to park one of the new cars directly outside the house so he could jump in as Brienne pulled up and drive off to leave a parking space for her.

Both young men had followed Brienne’s instructions meticulously, and everything was where it ought to be – at least loosely. There was, however, more of it than Brienne had expected.

“Jaime,” she said, staring at the boxes piled on the kitchen counter. “What are these?”

He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. “The weirnet says they’re the absolute best when it comes to pots and pans.”

Brienne tugged the nearest box closer and opened it to reveal an enamelled saucepan. She lifted it and turned it over to see the imprint of a Pentoshi brand she was extremely familiar with, but had never dared to covet. “Jaime …” She caressed the smooth surface. “We _had_ pots and pans.”

“Yes, but these are better.” He kissed her neck again. “According to 3ER, anyway. And if you’re going to teach me to cook more than omelettes and Pentoshi pasta, I demand decent equipment.”

“Jaime …” Brienne smiled. She set the pan down and turned to wrap her arms around his neck. “You’re incorrigible.”

He grinned at her. “Let’s send Pod and Lewys home, and you can take me upstairs and corrige me all you like.”


	154. Jaime LVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New routines, slightly disrupted.

_Seven Hells, the right pan really does make a difference._ Jaime tossed the second omelette, let it set, and slid it onto a plate. They’d quickly settled into as much of a routine as the constant round of publicity engagements allowed, and part of that was that Jaime, who always woke earlier than Brienne, made breakfast. “Wench!” he shouted. “Your breakfast is ready. Down here or up there?” He waited a moment for Brienne’s reply, but there was only silence. “Wench?”

“Down there,” she called back. “In a bit.”

Jaime put the plates on the kitchen table, poured two glasses of juice, and started the coffee maker. He tossed the last of the eggs, unseasoned, into the pan and ran the back of a spoon over them as they began to set. Once they were scrambled and cooked, he picked up Tess’s bowl and tipped them in.

“Not until they’re cool,” he told Tess, putting the bowl on the counter. She wagged her tail to show she understood, and then trotted out of the room. A moment later he heard her claws on the stairs. “Brienne?” Jaime called. “It’s getting cold.”

Brienne didn’t answer, but Tess gave one sharp bark. And Tess _never_ barked.

Jaime sprinted for the stairs. “Brienne? Brienne!”

Tess barked again, from their bedroom. As Jaime ran down the hallway he heard Brienne say _it’s alright, Tess, alright._ He burst through the bedroom door – the room was empty – the door to the en suite was open –

Brienne was kneeling by the privy, grey-faced, arms folded on the seat and her head on her arms. Tess sat pressed against her. “Sorry,” Brienne said, and then retched into the privy. She coughed, and wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. “That Dothraki takeaway is coming back on me again.”

Jaime shooed Tess aside so he could put his arm around Brienne’s shoulders. “Don’t be sorry, it was my idea to try the new place. _I’m_ sorry. Can I get you anything?”

“Ginger-root tablets, we’re out,” Brienne said, and retched again.

Jaime smoothed her hair back from her face with one hand as he pulled out his phone with the other. _Gingr rt tablts, _he ravened Peck_. Urgt. _He dropped his phone and put his arm around Brienne again. “Peck will be here soon. Do you want some water?”

“Gods be good, yes,” Brienne said.

Jaime scrambled to his feet, found a glass on his bedside table and filled it at the bathroom sink. “Here you are.”

Brienne took the glass. She took a mouthful, swilled it around her mouth and spat it out, and then drained the rest. “Thank you.”

Jaime rubbed her back. “What else can I do?”

She dropped her head to her arms again. “That’s nice. That helps.”

Jaime rubbed Brienne’s back as Tess pressed against her from the other side until his phone squawked to tell him Peck was downstairs. He went down and collected the ginger-root tablets, told Peck to cancel whatever was scheduled for the morning, and took the tablets up to Brienne. She took two, and leaned against him for a while as her cheeks slowly resumed their normal colour. “Do you think you should see a maester?” Jaime asked. “It’s been, what, three days? And you’re not getting any better.”

“Maybe,” Brienne said. “But it’s not bad enough to be serious, the ginger works.”

Jaime stretched to snatch a washcloth, and wiped her face. “Can you face breakfast? Maybe some toast?”

Brienne nodded. “Toast would be good, I think.”

She seemed so much better after she’d eaten it that Jaime decided not to cancel his morning engagements after all. “Wench, I’ve got to go do an interview with Jeyne and Balon for _The Hawk and the Dove_ campaign, and then do pictures with fans in Sowbelly Square. Will you raven Pia and get her to set up a maester’s appointment?”

“I actually feel fine now,” Brienne said. “I might make myself some porridge.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You’ve no fever, at least. But humour me?”

She smiled up at him. “If I don’t, you’re going to pester me with ravens every five seconds, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.” He kissed her again. “Although you know I’ll do that anyway.”

He ate his cold omelette and Brienne’s, cleaned Tess’s bowl and headed out.

It was hard to be enthusiastic about promoting any film other than _Oathkeeper_, but he was contractually obliged, and if he was honest with himself Jaime had to admit that if he hadn’t gone on to _Once Upon A Time In Dorne_ and _Oathkeeper_, he would have considered _The Hawk and the Dove_ a fine film and his best work to date. Jeyne Westerling, no doubt with an eye to Robb Stark’s chances, made generous references to _Oathkeeper_ in the interview and talked about how much she’d enjoyed the film. _Well, it’s her contract and her lookout if the studio fines her, _Jaime thought, and deflected questions to _him_ with a smile.

After the interview, the three of them spent an hour in Sowbelly Square as people lined up for photographs or with pieces of merch they wanted signed. Jaime had to tell more than one person clutching an _Oathkeeper_ poster that he couldn’t sign it this time, but he winked and suggested they wait when he did it. As a result, he spent almost _another_ hour after the photographer packed up and Jeyne and Balon left signing _Oathkeeper_ merch and posing for selfies. On the off-chance that Brienne was feeling better, he had Peck stop at the Ghiscari restaurant they both liked and pick up lunch.

Tess met him at the door, tail wagging furiously, as she always did when he’d been forced to leave her at home. “Where’s Brienne?” he asked, bending to pat her – not that he had to bend very far, these days, she was _definitely_ Ghost’s daughter. “Is she home?” Tess nosed his leg and then turned and pattered towards the stairs. Jaime followed her. “Wench? Are you hungry? I stopped at the _Green Grace_.” He found Brienne in their bedroom. She was dressed, but lying on her back on the big bed the delivery men had had such difficulty getting up the stairs, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Brienne?” He sat down next to her and put his hand over hers. “Are you feeling ill again?”

She blinked, and turned to look at him. “No.” Her voice was very quiet. “No, I’m hungry, I think.”

Jaime frowned. “Then what’s wrong? Did you see a maester?” _Oh gods be good, it’s something serious. _Fear clutched his heart._ A canker, or clotted lung, or the Shivers. _“Brienne?”

“I saw a maester, and I’m well,” Brienne said quickly, squeezing his hand. “Pia found one for me who could come to the house, so I didn’t provide any tabloid gossip.”

“What did he say?”

“_She_ said that I’d need a blood test to be absolutely sure.”

“Sure of what? Why do you need a blood test to be sure you’re well?”

“Well.” She took a deep breath, and rolled over on her side to face him. “Those moonpills you bought for me in Pentos …”

“They’ve made you ill, fuck, wench, I’m sorry, I –”

“Jaime,” Brienne said firmly, and he shut his mouth. “They’re not moonpills. They’re pre-natal vitamins.”

Jaime gaped at her. “Vitamins?” _How in the seven hells did the apothecary make that mistake? I _told_ him my wife might be carrying a babe – and alright my Pentoshi is fairly limited, but surely …_ “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “The maester is quite sure. And the thing is … when my moonblood didn’t start and we both thought it was just me getting used to the moonpills?” Jaime nodded numbly. _She’s carrying our child. That’s what she means, isn’t it? She’s carrying our child. _ “It looks like it wasn’t. I’d have to go in for a blood-test to put it beyond a doubt, but I sent Pia to the apothecary to get one of those over-the-counter tests.” She paused. “And moon tea.” 

The sudden ache of sorrow at her words dwarfed the pang of sadness Jaime had felt watching her take those two pills in Pentos. He squeezed her hand gently. _It’s not the right time, we both agreed it’s not the right time …_ the words came out anyway. “Are you sure?”

Brienne blinked at him, her beautiful blue eyes puzzled. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” Jaime said slowly. “No, I don’t think I am.”

She sat up and shifted closer to him. “But Tommen, and Myrcella …”

He sighed, and put his arm around her shoulders. “I know. And the house on Tarth isn’t finished yet, and Stannis Baratheon wants to talk to me about a role later in the year, and Arianne Martell wants you to be in some episodes of _Bedding and the City_ …” He shook his head. “It’s not the right time, I know it isn’t.”

“I don’t have to drink the tea today,” Brienne said softly, leaning against him. “It’ll be safe for weeks, yet.”

Jaime pressed his lips to her hair. “Does that mean you’re _not_ sure?”

“It just feels different,” Brienne confessed. “It’s not an idea. It’s …” She touched her stomach. “I mean, if I don’t do anything, then in eight months or so there’ll be a whole new person in the world. It feels different.”

He tightened his arm around her. “It does. What if Tommen and Myrcella weren’t upset about it? And we could get the house finished in time, and we could schedule work so it all fitted?”

“Then I’d want …” Her voice trailed off and she turned her face to his shoulder. “But it has to be both of us. _Both_ of us, Jaime.”

“And if it is? Both of us?”

He held his breath, but she raised her head to give him a radiant smile. “Then _yes_.”


	155. Jaime LVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation

“Let me give you the tour,” Jaime said, and Stannis Baratheon gave him a dour nod. “Library, armoury –” Stannis snorted. Jaime determinedly ignored it. “Kitchen. And up here –” he climbed the stairs, Stannis behind him. “Our bedroom, spare rooms there and there, and Tommen can sleep here –” He opened the door of the room they’d set aside for the boy.

Stannis eyed the wallpaper, which was a repeating pattern of kittens and puppies frolicking. “Mmhmm.”

“And Myrcella here.” Jaime opened the next door. “They’ve got a shared bathroom.”

Stannis not only checked the bathroom, he turned on the hot taps in the shower and the sink and tested the temperature. Then he tested the springs of each bed and opened and closed the windows and checked that their locks worked while Jaime tried not to fidget. “Adequate,” he concluded at last.

“So they can stay the night?”

Stannis nodded. He took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and held it out. “Bedtimes are on there. Tommen’s decided he’s a vegetarian and not just at home. Myrcella is not allowed coffee, whatever she tells you. Neither of them are allowed movies or television rated above _parental guidance_ and no screens in their bedrooms – phones downstairs when they go to bed.” He gave Jaime one of his small, tight smiles. “Blame me if they argue.”

Jaime took the paper and put it in his pocket to read thoroughly later. “I won’t, actually. It’s hardly fair to you, given all you’ve done for them.”

“Little and less,” Stannis said. “Your brother pointed that out to me, when I blamed him for not telling me how bad things had gotten with their mother. I should have paid enough attention to have already known.”

“So should I,” Jaime pointed out.

Stannis snorted. “You had … complicating factors, let’s call them.” He shrugged a little. “Tommen and Myrcella both want to stay here tonight and go to the Iron Thrones with you tomorrow night. If they want …” He shrugged again. “I’m their uncle. My brother was their father. Whatever you are to them, the three of you need to work out.”

“I know,” Jaime said.

“I know you know,” Stannis shot back. “Or I wouldn’t be agreeing to this.” He turned to the door, and then turned back. “And no chocolate for Tommen after dinner. It keeps him awake.”

Jaime followed Stannis back towards the stairs. “I wouldn’t have thought Selyse would have allowed him chocolate at all.”

Stannis smiled, just a little. “Don’t tell her.”

Myrcella and Tommen were out in the garden with Brienne and Tess. Tommen was paying a lot more attention to Tess than to Brienne, but Myrcella seemed to be genuinely interested as Brienne explained which of the green shoots were nettles and which were tomatoes.

“Go get your bags from the car,” Stannis called, and the two children hurried through the house to do just that. 

Brienne came up the stairs from the back garden after them. “I’m so glad you’re happy to let them stay,” she said to Stannis.

He gave her one of his minimal smiles. “You might not be, when you find out what your husband has agreed to in exchange.”

Brienne gave Jaime a sidelong look. “Exchange?”

Jaime laughed, and wrapped his arm around her waist. “Wench. Stannis is teasing you. The _exchange_ he’s talking about is the fact that he’s been hired to direct the next double-oh-three movie and he’s offered me the part.”

“Jaime.” Brienne gazed at him. “You’re going to be double-oh-three?” He nodded, and she leaned into him and pressed her lips to his. “Oh, Jaime, that’s wonderful, you’ll be wonderful.”

“It’d mean a long shoot,” Jaime warned her. “At least half of it on location. So it’s something we should talk about.”

“Oh.” Brienne bit her lip. “Yes.”

Tommen and Myrcella came back with their bags, and Brienne took them upstairs to show them their rooms while Jaime walked Stannis out to his car. When he got back inside, Brienne and the children were in the kitchen, Brienne showing Myrcella how to peel potatoes while still managing to look at Tommen’s pictures of Meraxes. She shot a glance at Jaime, eyebrows raised in inquiry, and he nodded. _It’s often a good idea to talk to children while you’re both doing something,_ Maester Luwin had said. _It gives them an excuse to delay answering while they process the information, and their reactions_. Jaime went over to the sink, pulled on a pair of gloves and began to wash the nettles for the salad. “Tommen, Myrcella, there’s something Brienne and I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Something bad?” Tommen asked immediately.

“No, nothing bad, at least, I hope you won’t think so. Just that Brienne and I are thinking about having a babe, and I wondered what you thought about it.”

“Oh.” Tommen shrugged. “Alright.”

Myrcella carefully pared a long strip of skin from the potato she held. “Are you asking because you think we might come and live here?”

“I think you should live where you want to live,” Jaime said. “I _do_ want you to feel that you can come here, if you want, for however long you want. But no, I’m asking because …” He took a breath. “Look, your dad was your dad and your mama was your mama, but I could’ve … been around, even just as a cousin. Been family.”

“Why didn’t you?” Tommen asked. Myrcella, who knew the answer – and seven hells, that had been a difficult and tear-soaked conversation in her maester’s office, one of many – shot Jaime a sidelong glance. 

“Your mama didn’t want it,” Jaime told him. “And I felt I had to respect her wishes.” That was some of the truth, but not all of it, but Tommen was definitely not old enough to learn about his mother’s possessiveness, her jealousy, her need to be the one-and-only lodestone in _everyone’s _life. “I mean, you wouldn’t take Tess to the park without making sure I was okay with it, would you?” Tommen shook his head. “But look, I do feel bad about not pushing the point, when you were little. I didn’t know … I mean, I’ve gathered that things were not great for you two for longer than I knew, and I _could’ve_ known.”

Tommen’s forehead wrinkled. “What does that have to do with you two having a babe?”

“Tommen,” Myrcella said patiently. “Jaime is trying to tell us that he won’t stop caring about us if he has another child. One he _is_ a dad to.”

“Oh.” Tommen looked down, scrolling through the pictures on his phone. “Well, I knew that. If I got another kitten I wouldn’t stop loving Meraxes. But I’d have to spend lots of time reassuring her of that, at first. That’s what you’re doing, I guess?”

“Pretty much,” Jaime said. “Tommen, Myrcella, I’m not your dad, but I _am_ your family, and I very much want to see you whenever you’re alright with that, and you can _always_ call on me when you need me. I want to do better than I did in the past. And that’s not going to change, ever, no matter what. It’s really important to me that you both know that.”

“We do,” Myrcella said, peeling the last potato. “Don’t worry, coz. If you two want to have a babe, you should have one. What size pieces do you want these in, Brienne?”

“About as thick as your thumb,” Brienne said. “Tommen, can you get Leo’s food out of the cupboard and give him half-a-cup?”

“Sure.” Tommen put his phone away and went to the cupboard. He stopped, and turned. “I agree with Myrs. In case you couldn’t tell. There are some books you should get, though, about having pets and babies as well.”

“Thank you, Tommen,” Jaime said. “Maybe you could raven me a list?”

“Sure,” Tommen said, and went back to getting Leo’s food.

_And that’s that_. Jaime wasn’t sure what he’d expected, only that he’d been terrified of somehow hurting Tommen and Myrcella more than they’d been hurt already. _But apparently not_. He slipped his hand into Brienne’s and gave him a sidelong smile. “So maybe no double-oh-three after all,” he said quietly.

She stroked his thumb with hers. “We’ll talk about it.”

After dinner, the four of them watched _Ralf Breaks The Weirnet_, selected by Tommen. That took them through to his bedtime.

He handed his phone to Brienne without being asked. “Do you think Tess would sleep in my room tonight?” he asked Jaime. “In case there’s, you know. New noises.”

“I think she would,” Jaime said. “Let’s take her upstairs and see.”

He had a quiet talk with Tess as Tommen brushed his teeth and washed his face – both far more conscientiously than Tyrion ever had – and when Tommen came back into the bedroom, Tess was stretched out next to the bed, chin on her paws.

Tommen stooped to rub behind her ears before he climbed into bed. “Thanks, Tess. Thanks … um.”

“You can just call me Jaime,” Jaime said. “Or coz.”

Tommen pleated the sheet between his fingers. “But you’re sort of not.”

“Well, I sort of am. As well as … the other thing.”

Tommen looked up at him. “Uncle Jaime? Can I call you that?”

“Of course you can. Now, are you too old for a bedtime story? I used to be quite the master at them, when Tyrion was your age.”

“Depends on what it’s about,” Tommen said.

Jaime sat down on the edge of the bed. “Well, this one is about a very brave young prince who lived long, long ago, in the age of ice and fire.”

“Did he have a dragon?”

“No, even better. He had a cat. A magic cat, who was really a knight in disguise. What do you think his name was?”

“Ser Pounce!” Tommen declared.

Jaime smiled. “You’re absolutely right. His name was Ser Pounce, and he’d been a member of the Kingsguard, until a wicked maegi enchanted him. The maegi wanted to hurt the prince, you see, and knew that Ser Pounce was so strong and so brave and loved the prince so much he’d protect the prince against everything. But the maegi hadn’t counted on Ser Pounce. Even as a cat, Ser Pounce stayed with the prince night and day, sitting on his lap when he had his lessons, sleeping on his pillow at night. And the maegi couldn’t get near the prince, ever. But one day, the prince heard of a dangerous giant, far away, and he knew he had to go and stop the giant from hurting people. So he and Ser Pounce set out on a quest.”

By the time the prince and Ser Pounce had negotiated with a grumkin under a bridge for safe passage and helped a woodcutter whose wagon was stuck, Tommen was asleep. Jaime made sure the covers were snug around him and turned off the light. Tess gave a single thump of her tail and settled down to doze herself.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Jaime could hear Brienne and Myrcella in the kitchen. “I think he likes me,” Myrcella said. “But I’m not sure. And I can’t, you know. _Ask_ him.”

“Mmm,” Brienne said. “I can see that.”

“How did you know Jaime liked you?” Myrcella asked, and Jaime stopped to listen. “I mean, _liked_-liked.”

“Well,” Brienne said slowly. “It was a sort of a two-step process. We were really good friends for quite a while before I realised that he _liked_-liked me, as well. And then we had some things to sort out, even after that. It’s not as simple as in the movies.”

“Yeah, Mama really messed him up,” Myrcella said matter-of-factly.

“I don’t know your mama,” Brienne said carefully. “But I think she’s been very unhappy, maybe for a long time, and when people are unhappy they sometimes do things that are bad for them, and for the people around them.”

“You don’t have to be nice about her,” Myrcella said. “I mean, for my sake.”

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Brienne asked. “And I’m not _being nice_ about her, for your sake or anyone’s.” Jaime could hear her filling the kettle. “Sometimes when I think about the consequences of the things she did, I get quite angry. Not just about Jaime, but about you, and your brothers, and the Stark family. But, you know, she was a little girl once, who wanted … well, whatever she wanted, I doubt it was what happened. Sometimes people’s lives go terribly wrong. I used to see it all the time when I was in law enforcement. People don’t set out to make a mess of their life, they make some bad choices and then they have some bad luck, and there they are. And that’s just sad.”

“The Stark family …” Myrcella paused. “People think she told Joff to kill Eddard Stark.”

“I know. Here’s your tea.”

“Thanks. She didn’t, though.”

“Alright,” Brienne said. And then –

“It was Petyr Baelish,” Myrcella said. “Who got the gun for him. And talked him into doing it.”


	156. Tyrion XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion likes *some* members of his family.

“Yes, I definitely heard them,” Myrcella said for the fifth time. “I was on the stairs. They were in the kitchen. I could hear quite clearly.”

“I think that’s enough,” Tyrion told Commander Jacelyn Bywater. “It’s practically the hour of the bat. My young cousin needs her sleep.”

“Yes, do let me show you out,” Brienne said immediately, rising to her impressive height and stepping in front of Myrcella, sitting on the couch in the protective circle of Jaime’s arm.

Bywater, clearly recognising that Brienne was both willing and able to physically evict him, rose to his feet. “We’ll need a formal statement at some point.”

“We’ll raven you when Myrcella is available,” Tyrion said.

Brienne ushered Bywater out of the living room. Tyrion heard him saying something about _no motive_, and frowned. _That is a problem_. Not that he thought Myrcella was lying, and he was reasonably confident of his ability to tell when a witness was telling the truth … _but did she misunderstand? Is she filling in parts of a half-heard conversation to make it mean something it didn’t?_

“You did really well,” Jaime told Myrcella. “I’m incredibly impressed.”

Myrcella’s face was pale and strained, but she smiled at that. “I should have said something sooner.”

“That’s not your fault,” Tyrion said.

“It really isn’t.” Brienne came back into the room, and sat down on Myrcella’s other side. “One of the things they teach us when we join the Gold Cloaks is that when something traumatic happens, it can be hard to talk about it. Your dad died, and then Joffrey … did what he did.”

“Anyway, who would you have told?” Tyrion said. “Your mother?” Myrcella gave a little snort at that, and Tyrion nodded. “Exactly. You were in a tough situation, and you waited until you felt alright to talk about it.”

Myrcella shook her head a little. “It’s not just that. I mean … what if they let Joffrey out because of it?” She shivered. “What if he wants to live with us again?”

“That won’t happen,” Tyrion said quickly. “First of all, he’s not in prison for some set amount of time. He’s confined to Brightflame Hospital until the maesters say he’s better. Secondly, Stannis would never allow it. Apart from you and Tommen, he’d never let Joff near Shireen. And the fact that someone gave him the idea doesn’t change the fact that Joffrey actually did it. Alright? Don’t worry about Joffrey, please.”

“Do you want to go to bed?” Brienne asked. “It’s very late.”

Myrcella shook her head. “Not yet. I … not yet.”

“Ice-cream,” Jaime declared, rising to his feet and pulling Myrcella with him. “Kitchen, everyone.”

Tyrion was unsurprised, but still surprisingly touched, that one of the stools tucked against the kitchen island had a built-in stepladder and rungs high enough for him to rest his feet comfortably. Jaime produced three different flavours of ice-cream from the freezer, and then four flavours of syrup. He dished out a heaping serve of each flavour and put the bowl in front of Brienne.

“Jaime, it’s too late for me to eat this much,” she protested.

“Calcium,” he countered. “Good for growing bones.”

_Growing …_ Tyrion blinked, and accepted his own, much more moderate, portion. _Oh._ “Goodsister?” he asked quietly. “Is there family news?” Her sudden flush was answer enough. “Well, never a dull moment when the Lannisters are involved, it seems.”

“Oh!” Myrcella said, and grinned. “_That’s_ why coz Jaime wanted to talk to us about a babe! You’ve already caught one!”

“It’s still early,” Brienne said quickly. “And … well, there’s Jaime’s work, and everything, so we might not …”

Myrcella sprang up, and flung her arms around Brienne. “Oh, but you should! I’ll quit school and be your nanny –”

“You will _not_ quit school,” Jaime said instantly.

Brienne gingerly returned Myrcella’s embrace. “No, you won’t. But thank you for the offer.”

“I could do distance learning on the weirnet –”

“Myrcella,” Jaime said firmly. “Please think for just a moment about Stannis Baratheon’s reaction to you abandoning your education.”

She sighed, gave Brienne one last squeeze, and sat down again. “Fine. But I get to babysit.”

“Congratulations to you both,” Tyrion said, although he felt queerly melancholy. _This is everything you’ve ever wanted for Jaime_, he scolded himself. _Marriage, family, happiness_. It had been a thousand years since he had been small and Jaime had been young, and he’d fallen asleep to Jaime’s lugubrious interpretation of Dolorous Ed. _And yet …_

“Little brother,” Jaime said. “If you become _Uncle Tyrion_ Brienne and I will be relying on you for all the wise and worldly advice we’re not qualified to provide.”

Tyrion snorted. “Worldly, possibly. Wise, unlikely.” But he felt oddly better. _They’ll have enormous children, the two of them. Enormous blonde children with Jaime’s absurd sentimentality and Brienne’s terrifying sincerity. Someone will need to look out for them. _He lifted his spoon in a sketch of a toast. “But I will do my best.”

“Myrcella, you really should go to bed,” Brienne said. “It’s very late. Why don’t you go up and get ready and I’ll bring you some herbal tea?”

Myrcella nodded, visibly drooping. “Goodnight, coz Jaime. Goodnight, coz Tyrion.”

“Goodnight,” Tyrion said. He ate his ice-cream as Myrcella went upstairs, and as Brienne made a cup of tea and followed her. “So kind cousin Cersei might not be guilty of all the sins laid against her.”

“Guilty of enough,” Jaime said. He pushed his bowl away. “She had a part in Robert’s death. And the way she treated the children …”

“Guilty of enough,” Tyrion agreed. “Not to mention Melara.” He paused. “Did you think about the fact that Myrcella will need to testify, if the Cloaks decide to go ahead and charge Baelish?”

Jaime nodded. “I did. But Brienne …” He shrugged a little. “She said it was the right thing to do.”

“She’s probably right.” Tyrion scooped up the last bit of ice-cream and pushed the bowl aside. “But I’m glad you called me. I’ll have to talk to Stannis, as her guardian, to be formally hired as her counsel, but we have a reasonable relationship. I’ll look after her.”

“I know.” Jaime smiled, as he’d used to do when they were young. “That’s why I called you.”

“Are you still planning on taking them to the Iron Thrones tomorrow night?”

Jaime nodded. “If they both still want to go. I’ve made it a Lannister family event, with Genna and Addam and Uncle Gerion on our table as well as you and Shae, so it won’t look odd.”

“The only family members I can stand,” Tyrion said. He climbed down from the stool. “Well, I’ll leave you to get your beauty sleep. See you tomorrow night.” He paused. “How early do you think Shae and I should get there to avoid the madness?”

“Fuck that.” Jaime went down on one knee and gathered Tyrion into a hug. “Come in the limo with Brienne and me. Genna’s taking the children early to avoid the paps, but you’re the Seven Kingdom’s most successful entertainment lawyer, act like it.”

Accordingly, the next evening, some hours after a _very_ long phone conversation with Stannis Baratheon, Tyrion found himself staring down the barrel of the red carpet as Jaime helped Brienne out of the car. He and Shae had avoided much notice at the _Oathkeeper_ premiere by arriving very early, but there was no dodging the paparazzi tonight.

Shae reached down to take his hand. “Come, my lion,” she said softly.

“I just don’t want all Jaime’s publicity tomorrow to be about his –”

Shae silenced him with a kiss. “It won’t be. It’s not as if he’s kept you secret all these years, is it?” She adjusted his bow-tie. “You look very handsome.”

“And you are very beautiful,” Tyrion said, which was no more than the truth: Shae was stunning in a diaphanous pink gown that perfectly set off her glossy dark hair and smooth skin.

“I know,” she said smugly, and drew him with her along the red carpet.

Ahead of them, Jaime and Brienne were at the centre of a storm of camera flashes. _No wonder_. Jaime looked even more than usually handsome in an extremely well-tailored tuxedo, and Brienne’s simple cream gown with her fair hair and pale, freckled skin turned her into a tower of light as the flash-bulbs flared. “Yes, of course I’m nervous,” Tyrion heard Jaime say in response to an indistinct question. “I’m only human, after all, and a lot of very fine films are nominated this year.” The he turned and – _oh you great thundering sentimental fool_ – beckoned Tyrion and Shae. “This is my dear brother Tyrion, and his partner Shae. _Oathkeeper_ wouldn’t have been made without Tyrion, although unfortunately there’s no _Best Entertainment Lawyer_ category for him to be nominated in.”

There was no option but for Tyrion and Shae to go forward. Shae carried herself like a queen, and Tyrion tried a friendly wave and a smile at the reporters. “Hello.”

A microphone was shoved in his face. “Are you hoping your brother wins tonight, Tyrion?”

“Of course I am,” he said. “He deserves to.”

“You’re representing a number of women bringing civil suits against your father, do you –”

Jaime put his hand over the microphone. “No questions about our father, please, let’s not ruin everyone’s digestion.”

“But how does it feel to have so thoroughly eclipsed his own best year at the Iron Thrones, by eight nominations?”

Jaime grinned, sharp as a knife. “Fucking fantastic, and you can quote me on that.”

And then they were past the cameras and the microphones and climbing the stairs to the Red Keep. They were authentically steep and uneven, and Tyrion thought to himself _and this is another good reason I should have arrived early_ as he struggled up them.

“One more flight,” Jaime said, his arm tight around Brienne’s waist.

“_One_ more?” Tyrion looked at the long line of steps ahead of them, turning back on themselves to zig-zag up the steep hill.

Jaime grinned at him. “Little brother, do you think actresses walk up all those stairs in six-inch heels every year? There’d be no insuring them for any productions in the next eight weeks because of all the broken ankles if that was the case. There’s an elevator. Just over here.”

There _was_ an elevator, that whisked them upwards to the Great Hall. Tyrion had seen it before, of course, but it was usually empty except for the ominous shape of the Iron Throne looming at the far end of the cavernous chamber. Tonight, it was crowded with tables, many of them already occupied, and a warm hum of voices replaced the normal intimidating silence. The four of them were promptly escorted to a table where Genna, Gerion, and the two children were already waiting.

Tyrion endured Genna’s kisses, managed to escape Gerion’s handshake with his fingers unbroken, and greeted his young cousins. “You look very grown-up, Tommen.” _And very much like Jaime in that suit. _“And your dress is lovely, Myrcella.”

She looked down and smoothed the apricot silk. “Coz Jaime took me to buy it today.”

Tyrion checked the name-cards, and hoisted himself into the seat that was his. “And what else did you do?”

“We went to a super fancy restaurant for lunch.”

“Excuse me,” Jaime said. “The Queen of Thorns is enthroned at the Tyrell table and summoning me to her side.”

“Jaime, don’t _call_ her that –” Brienne said, and Jaime smiled, went up on his tiptoes to kiss her, and slipped away.

“Here, goodniece,” Gerion boomed, leaping up to grab her chair. “Sit yourself down and let me get you a drink.”

“Just water, thank you.” Brienne sat, letting Gerion push her chair in for her as she did.

“You look wonderful, dear,” Genna said, patting her hand. “Are you nervous?”

“For Jaime, yes. I know I won’t win, but I hope he does. I hope _Oathkeeper_ does well. It would be awful to get that many nominations and not win anything!”

“I’m afraid even Varys can’t penetrate the security to give us advance notice,” Tyrion said. “Brienne, someone’s waving at you over there.”

She turned, and waved back with a beaming smile. “It’s the Martells. And Barristan. Oh, Elia’s here! That’s wonderful.”

“Brienne!” A young woman’s voice, raised to a level that carried clear across the room. Tyrion turned to see Eddard Stark’s younger daughter waving her arms frantically above her head. “Brienne! We’re here, look!”

Brienne waved back, but didn’t try to shout a reply. “Is it always like this?”

Tyrion shrugged. “Aside from my dear brother, no-one at this table has ever been to the Iron Thrones before, so you’ll have to save your question for him.”

“And shouldn’t Stannis and Selyse be here?”

“Ah, that I _can_ answer. Stannis is quite famous for hating these things. He’s never once attended, not even the years when he was nominated. In fact, when he actually won for _The Qarthi Connection _there was a small moment of contained panic when the presenters realised there was no-one to accept the most prestigious award of the night.” He grinned. “It went viral on RookTube. Jaime laughed about it for weeks.”

“What did I laugh about?” Jaime asked, slipping into his seat and taking Brienne’s hand. Tyrion told him, and Jaime threw back his head with a shout of laughter. “Oh, that’s right, I’d forgotten. It was Arthur and … Larra Blackmont, I think. She went white as a sheet and started to gabble, and Arthur just grandly announced that the award would be sent to Stannis and swept her off stage.”

“The poor girl,” Brienne said reprovingly.

“She was absolutely plastered, Brienne, I feel she played a part in her own misfortune.” He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Did you see that Arthur and Lew are here? It probably means Arthur is presenting something. But they’re sitting together, and Arthur has his arm around Lew’s shoulders.” He shrugged. “I guess when your Prime Minister has a husband, some risk calculations change. And he’s already said the next _Quest Impossible_ film will be his last. Oh, good, the drinks.”

Brienne sipped water, the other adults sipped champagne, and both children had concoctions that looked too much like cocktails for Tyrion to be entirely easy in his mind until he’d tasted Myrcella’s. _Fruit, and flavouring, but nothing else_. Gerion gave him a _what kind of a great-uncle do you think I am_ look, and Tyrion raised his eyebrows in response. _The kind who gave me my first beer when I was fifteen_.

“They do the technical awards first,” Jaime explained to Tommen and Myrcella. “Sound, editing, all the design ones. They’re not usually broadcast. And then they’ll bring out the second course, and start the main ones.”

“You’ll win, Uncle Jaime,” Tommen said. “I know you will.”

“I hope so,” Jaime admitted. “But it’s alright if I don’t. Getting nominated says _you’re one of the five best_. I mean, if I was one of the five best runners in the Seven Kingdoms, I’d be pretty fast, right?” Tommen nodded. “And anyway, I feel that I did a good job. It’s always nice when other people agree, but it’s not essential.”

Tyrion snorted, remembering several occasions of truly epic Jaime Lannister wallowing when he’d not won an award he felt he deserved. “Have you two seen the other films?”

Both Tommen and Myrcella nodded. “Stannis showed them to us, us and Shireen. He said the nominations for _The Best Exotic Mantarys Hotel _are your biggest threat in the acting categories because of sentiment, but _The Wards Are Alright_ is the one most likely to beat you for writing, and best picture. He said the Iron Throne Council always overlooks sophisticated writing in epics and big budget pictures.”

Jaime shrugged. “Maybe. But losing to Barristan Selmy isn’t anything to be ashamed of. And if Brienne doesn’t win, my money’s on Jeyne Westerling.”

“I think they’re starting,” Brienne said, and they all fell silent as Alys Karstark took the stage.


	157. Ravens XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not strictly a ravens chapter, since it's newspapers ...

The Highgarden Herald

The story of the day, and perhaps the biggest story of the year, is the stunning triumph of _Oathkeeper_ at last night’s Iron Throne Awards. Some were no surprise: veteran artist Jaqen H’ghar took home his ninth trophy in the Makeup and Hair category, as he has done in every year he’s been nominated. No-one who’s found themselves humming _Oathkeeper’s _catchy signature song _This is your sword_ all day after hearing it once would argue with Mance Rayder’s win for Best Original Song. Likewise, Lemonwood Studio’s Iron Throne for _Oathkeeper’s_ visual effects and Highgarden’s triumph in both editing categories seemed like foregone conclusions. But competition was tighter in the non-design categories. Fans of _Mantarys Doll _will have been delighted by Alys Karstark’s droll and sharp-edged monologue to open the ceremony, skewering the industry that let Tywin Lannister thrive for decades with jokes that left many laughing and some deservedly cringing. Later in the evening she returned to the stage, this time to be honoured along with Willas Tyrell for her work penning _Oathkeeper’s_ original screenplay. With _three_ of its actresses nominated for Best Supporting, odds were good that _Oathkeeper_ would triumph in that category as well, but Daenerys Targaryen was considered an outside chance. Sympathy over the newly revealed truth about her father’s death may have played a part, but the young actress was all class as she invited Margaery Tyrell and Sarella Sand to take the stage with her as she accepted the award. Robb Stark caused quite a few people to wipe away tears when he used his win as Best Supporting Actor to urge attendees to donate to the Wolfswood Wildlife Preservation Fund, the charity his father founded and was so vocal in advocating for. His young wife Jeyne Westerling broke _Oathkeeper’s _run by taking home an Iron Throne for her role in _The Hawk and the Dove_, and Brienne Tarth cemented her position as the nicest woman in show-business with her unquestionably sincere shout of delight and leap to her feet to applaud the victory of her rival. Jaime Lannister’s clear emotion at receiving the Best Actor Iron Throne from Arthur Dayne brought a lump to many throats, while Olenna Tyrell’s thanking long-time rival Doran Martell as she accepted the Iron Throne for best director made attendees gasp.

As for Best Picture? Can there be any doubt? _Oathkeeper’s_ triumphant night concluded with Olenna Tyrell, and the entire attending cast of _Oathkeeper _taking the stage to receive a thunderous standing ovation as Elia Martell, in her first public appearance in decades, announced that _Oathkeeper_ is Best Picture of the year.

* * *

The Sunspear Sun

Sarella Sand once again dazzled on the red carpet at last night’s Iron Throne’s Awards in a stunning silver pantsuit. Although narrowly missing out on what would have been a well-deserved Iron Throne for Best Supporting Actress, the rising star can take comfort in the public recognition of her uncle Doran Martell’s superior work in visual effects with a victory for _Oathkeeper _in the category, as well as her aunt Elia’s triumphant return to public life.

But the night, otherwise, belonged to _Oathkeeper_. Jaime Lannister has emerged from his father’s shadow as a serious force in Westerosi film-making. Industry gossip confirms that, despite Olenna Tyrell’s hand on the helm, Lannister was the driving creative force behind the film that has set box-office and award ceremony records unlikely to be surpassed in the near future. Actors, writers, technical artists and the director herself took to the stage to hoist their Iron Throne high and pay credit to Lannister’s role in bringing _Oathkeeper_ to the screen. His triumph in the Best Actor category was well-deserved, but so too was the enthusiastic applause when he and his new wife, Brienne Tarth, took the stage with the rest of the cast and crew of _Oathkeeper _to accept the Best Picture Iron Throne. No one can doubt that Lannister is a man to watch.

* * *

Rolling Runestone

The story of Tywin Lannister’s dramatic fall from grace concluded yesterday with the equally dramatic triumph of the son whose reputation he selfishly tarnished. Jaime Lannister entered the history books as the producer and, many say, driving force behind the film that smashed previous records for most Iron Throne awards. Move over, _Gone with the Winds of Winter_, because _Oathkeeper_ now holds the position of most awarded movie in the history of the Seven Kingdoms – as well as the flat-out victor in the battle of the box office.

You have to feel sorry for Doran Martell, who could only console himself with a win in the Best Visual Effects category. In any other year, Jaime Lannister’s extraordinary performance in _Once Upon A Time In Dorne_ would have lifted that picture into clear front-runner across the board, but with him and his real-life wife burning up the screen and some profoundly brave work from young Robb Stark, _Oathkeeper_ couldn’t be denied.

We’ll go on record here and say that Brienne Tarth should have won in the Best Actress category. Jeyne Westerling’s performance in _The Hawk and the Dove_ was affecting, but in a vein we have seen so often before, while Brienne Tarth’s Blue Knight was a wholly original character animated by the actress’s unique combination of strength and tenderness. However, _Oathkeeper’s_ one loss in its record streak of nominations can’t tarnish the film’s triumph. _Oathkeeper_ enters the history books as one of the best films – if not _the_ best film – in the history of the industry, and no-one can argue that it isn’t well deserved. 


	158. Jaime LIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day. NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was short, so here's another.

Jaime unclipped Tess’s lead from her collar. “Go check on the children,” he said, and Tess pattered away in the direction of the stairs. He tucked the morning papers under his arm and headed to the kitchen. Everything he’d read on the weirnet said Brienne shouldn’t have coffee this early in her pregnancy, so he dropped teabags into two mugs and filled the kettle before he put bread in the toaster. Tess came back downstairs before the kettle whistled or the toast popped, so Jaime fed her before he carried Brienne’s breakfast upstairs.

“Wench?” He elbowed the door open. “I’ve got breakfast.”

“Oh, Seven Hells, yes.” Brienne sat up and reached for the plate. She snatched up a piece of toast and bit into it.

“3ER said that something to eat early in the morning –”

“Shut up and give me my tea,” Brienne ordered.

Jaime shut up and gave her her tea. Brienne ate her way steadily through two pieces of toast and drained her mug of tea. “Better?” he asked.

“Better,” Brienne said. She put the mug down on the bedside table and turned to face him. “Thank you. Morning sickness makes me long for the Seven Hells.” 

He leaned down to kiss her. “I wish I could go through it for you.”

“I wish Petyr Baelish could go through it for me,” Brienne said dryly. She put her plate next to her mug and reached up to grab Jaime’s shoulders. “Come here and wish me a proper good morning.”

“With pleasure.” Jaime let her pull him down on top of her. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Are you?” Brienne countered.

Jaime laughed. “Why, Brienne Tarth, how bold you’ve become.” He nudged her legs apart and settled into the cradle of her body. “One would hardly know that you were a blushing maiden so recently.”

Brienne raised her hips, pushing down her smallclothes, and then yanked at his fly. “Are you going to talk, or are you going to bed me?”

Jaime kissed her. “I haven’t even read you what the papers said about last night.” 

“Summarise.” Brienne got his pants down enough to take his cock in her hand and Jaime’s mind went blank of everything except how good it felt, her grip strong and gentle at the same time.

“It was … good, fuck, Brienne, good,” he panted. “Brienne …”

And she stopped. “Jaime.”

“Like that.” He pressed his face to her neck. “Like that, please –”

“Jaime,” Brienne said. “Leo is looking at me.”

Jaime raised his head to see the cat curled on the end of the bed. “I don’t think we’re corrupting him.”

“Jaime!” Brienne pushed at his shoulder. “I can’t!”

He stared at her, but she was entirely in earnest. He began to laugh. “Wench, you’re serious?”

“He’s _looking_ at me!” she said again.

Jaime kissed her shoulder. “Oh, how I love you, wench.” Reluctantly, he raised himself off her, and picked up Leo. “Outside for now, ser,” he said and deposited Leo outside the door before returning to the bed. “Now, where were we?”

“I think I’ve lost the mood,” Brienne mumbled.

“Oh, are you so sure?” Jaime trailed his fingers up her thigh. “Are you really sure?”

“Jaime,” Brienne sighed, her back arching. “Oh, Jaime …”

“Maybe not so sure?” He kissed her, as careful and slow and gentle as the first time as his fingers reached their target. Brienne moaned against his mouth as he touched the warm sweetness between her legs, hips rising. “Maybe not so sure, wench?”

“Like that,” she said. “Jaime, like that, please!”

“Just like that,” Jaime promised her, and kissed her again. “What do you want? My mouth? My cock?”

“Oh, your mouth, Jaime, please,” Brienne gasped, and Jaime slid down the bed. Brienne groaned and heaved up against him as he slid his fingers inside her, fastening his lips on her, sucking and stroking. “Jaime, Jaime!” She strained against him and then convulsed with a wail, hands digging into the bedsheets as she bucked and spasmed against him. “Jaime. Jaime.” The way she said his name brought Jaime to his own release, grinding against her leg. He ran his tongue over her again, but she pushed at his shoulders. “No, too much, too much –”

He raised himself on his elbow to look up at her. She was in earnest, so he crawled up the bed to lie beside her. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, lovely,” she assured him, rolling over to drape herself across him. She nestled her head on his shoulder. “Just sensitive. Are you alright?”

“Perfect.” He kissed her hair, and then her temple, and her sweet pink freckled cheek. “Good morning.”

She snuggled closer to him with a hum of contentment. “Good morning.”

“Do you want something else to eat? Porridge? An omelette?”

“Mmm, omelette,” she said. “Plain, though.”

He kissed her cheek again. “One plain omelette, coming up.”

Tommen and Myrcella were in the kitchen when he got downstairs, Tommen at the kitchen island and Myrcella frowning at the back of a packet of oatmeal.

“Do you _want_ porridge?” Jaime asked. “Or would a couple of omelettes satisfy you?”

Myrcella put the oatmeal down with relief. “Omelettes. _Please._”

“Do you want to learn how to make them?” Jaime offered. “It’s fine if you don’t, but it’s not hard.” He grinned at her. “_I_ can do it, after all.”

“Yes,” Myrcella said.

So Jaime taught Myrcella and Tommen how to make an omelette, and explained about the importance of the right weight of pan, and how to tell when it had set just enough. Myrcella made her own omelette while Tommen was eating, nearly bursting into tears when her attempt to fold it sent it onto the counter. “No one saw,” Jaime told her, and scooped it back into the pan. He grinned at her. “Brienne calls it the five-heartbeat-rule.”

“What if it was on the floor?” Myrcella asked doubtfully.

“If it was on the floor, Tess would eat it before you could get near it,” Jaime said. He shook the pan once more and tipped the misshapen omelette onto a plate. “There. Not quite as pretty, but I promise it will taste just as good.” He scrambled Tess’s eggs and set them aside to cool, and then made Brienne’s omelette so it was ready when she came downstairs.

Her hair was still damp from the shower when she did. She kissed Jaime’s cheek chastely and sat down, applying herself to her second breakfast with a will. Jaime considered making himself an omelette as well, calculated the length of time before filming would start if he accepted Stannis’s offer, and made himself a piece of dry toast instead. Brienne caught his gaze as he bit off a corner, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. He raised his eyebrows. _Alright, yes. I’d like to do it. I’d like to be 003. So I’m keeping my options open._

She finished her omelette and got up to put her plate in the sink. “Talk to Stannis,” she whispered, kissing his cheek again. “He’s a father.”

When Stannis arrived to pick up the children, Jaime took the opportunity to do just that as Tommen and Myrcella hurriedly packed their phones and chargers and assorted belongings. “So, ah … I need to talk to you.” He shoved his hands in his pocket. “Do you want a cup of tea? Or coffee?”

“I never say no to coffee, if it’s decent,” Stannis said.

Jaime spun away and turned on the coffee-maker. _The one Brienne helped me buy_, he remembered, as he operated it with his left hand, although these days his right was almost strong enough to manage. She’d kept a cheerful smile on her face the whole time in the store, she’d installed it for him with brisk efficiency, but she’d been so pale he’d wondered if she was going to throw up. Her evident misery, and the effort she’d gone to in concealing it, had forced him to bury his own despair, for her sake at least. _Fake it until you make it_, just as he’d dragged himself out of bed to help Tyrion with his homework and watch TV with him in those horrendous weeks after _Kingslayer._

Except Brienne had been there for him at the times when the façade cracked, strong and gentle. When he couldn’t be strong for her, she’d been strong for him.

Jaime blinked hard, and turned back to set the mug in front of Stannis. “First, about Myrcella … it’s obviously your decision but I really recommend you accept Tyrion’s offer. He fights for all his clients, but he loves her dearly and he’ll fight like a lion to protect her.”

Stannis sipped his coffee. “Does she _need_ a lawyer, if all she’s doing is telling the truth about what she heard?”

Jaime shrugged. “Maybe not, but Tyrion won’t bill you, he’ll make sure the Cloaks don’t badger her or confuse her, and if they _do_ decide to charge Baelish and she has to testify in court, he’ll make sure she’s well prepared. Whoever Baelish gets will be a shark and will try to tear Myrcella apart.”

“Mm.” Stannis was silent a moment. “Well, I’ll take your advice, then.” He paused. “Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

“I think she’s absolutely saying what she believes is true,” Jaime said. “What I can’t figure out is what in the Seven Hells Baelish was doing anywhere near the whole mess.”

“You know what a social-climber he is,” Stannis said. “Robert couldn’t stand him, said he was always trying to crawl up his arse. Couldn’t understand it, but Cersei kept inviting him to parties, that sort of thing.”

“Keeping him sweet,” Jaime guessed. “I thought Ned Stark must have given him that story for his _Littlefinger’s List_, but maybe he knew earlier.”

Stannis nodded. “Maybe he did. Certainly, telling Baelish doesn’t sound like something I’d expect from Ned.”

“But why suggest Joffrey kill Ned?” Jaime said. “I mean, he went ahead and ran the rumour anyway, after Robert was dead and Cersei was no more use to him, so why want it secret so badly he’d be willing to see a man dead? Just to protect his exclusive?” He shook his head. “I’ll believe a lot of bad things about Petyr Baelish, but that’s a little too far.”

Stannis gave his small smile. “He probably hoped to have a chance to comfort the widow.”

Jaime stared at him. “Baelish and _Catelyn Stark_?”

“Way back in the days before she met Ned, according to him. Not ever, according to her. Of the two, I’d say she’s more reliable, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Baelish still carried a torch.”

Jaime rubbed at a spot on the counter. “He gave Sansa Stark a job,” he said slowly. “After. And gave Robb a lot of good publicity. I thought … well, it was a shocking thing, I thought he felt sorry for them.”

Stannis snorted. “Petyr Baelish with a normal human impulse? Doubtful. Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Oh, not just that.” Jaime took a deep breath. _Just say it. _“Brienne’s with child.”

“Congratulations,” Stannis said, instantly, and as warmly as Stannis Baratheon ever said anything.

“Double-oh-three …” Jaime paused. “I want to do it. I want to do it more than any role I’ve ever been offered. But a six month shoot, largely on location, starting mid-year …”

“Aye,” Stannis said. “I can see that would be a problem.”

“I’m sorry.” Jaime took a stool across the kitchen island from Stannis. “I really am. I’m hugely flattered that you offered me the role, but –”

“Doing the studio shoots at the front end will be tricky,” Stannis interrupted. “But according to the Queen of Thorns, Davos Seaworth can work miracles. We won’t need to go to Essos until … hmm, last quarter of the year? And then we’ll be in Braavos the whole time, until we come back to the Seven Kingdoms after Last Dark.” He gave Jaime a small smile. “And if you’re worried about eighteen-hour days, I’m taking your wife’s advice and taking my family with me. Guild hours, my word on it, because I’ll be as eager to leave the set as you will be.”

“Well, fuck,” Jaime said, stunned. “So I could …?”

“If you want.” Stannis sipped his coffee. “I mean, it won’t be like being a stay-at-home-dad. But we can probably work it so you have three full days off each week. Selyse and the children will be around for your wife to have company. I’m getting a tutor for them, the children, by the way.” He gave Jaime another of his small, contained smiles. “Your wife’s suggestion.” He drank more of his coffee. “Talk it over with Brienne. She might not want to spend three months in Braavos with a small child. Of course, it’s a short flight across the Narrow Sea, but you might not want to be away for even four or five days at a time.” He shrugged slightly. “It’s always a balancing act, in this business. What jobs you take, which ones you don’t. Talk to your wife, and let me know.”

Jaime nodded as the children came thundering down the stairs, only slowed by Tess hovering before them, tail wagging as she retreated slowly down the steps. “Alright.” He raised his voice. “You have everything, you two?”

Tommen nodded, coming to throw his arms around Jaime’s waist. “But you’ll mail back anything we missed.”

Jaime ran his hand over Tommen’s hair. “I will. Or bring it myself.”

Myrcella was next, and she hugged him too. “Goodbye, coz,” she said, and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “And your bedroom _isn’t_ soundproof, by the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a heads up, dear readers. The remaining chapters are going to take place over a longer than usual time-span.


	159. Selwyn I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne visit Tarth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I’d normally just throw this at you (I mean, I pretend-drowned a small child and a kitten in a cliff-hanger in a previous fic, pretend-killed one of the protagonists in a cliff-hanger four chapters later and then pretend-killed the *other* protagonist five chapters after that), but we’re all more fragile these days, so specific chapter warning for miscarriage *scare*

His daughter was as tall and strong as ever, despite the slightly swelling stomach that gave her more of a woman’s shape, now. Selwyn waved, although good sense told him that, given there were no other passengers on the seaplane and no-one else waiting by the dock, neither his daughter nor his goodson would mistake him for anyone else.

The collected their bags and hurried up the dock, Tess leaping out behind them. Brienne first, to drop her suitcase and throw her arms around him. “Dad.”

“Hello, sweetling.” No matter how tall she got, Brienne would always be his little girl. Selwyn wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. “How are you?”

“Good.” Brienne pulled back and smiled at him, and he could tell she was telling the truth. “Not sick, anymore. A bit tired in the afternoons, but that’s all.”

“You look well,” he said, honestly, because she did, as warm and glowing as she’d looked for the last year. As she’d looked as a little girl, as she hadn’t looked since until Jaime Lannister. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and reached out to shake Jaime’s hand. “Goodson.”

“Goodfather,” Jaime said, grinning. “Fuck, it’s good to be back. Please tell me there’s a music night at the _Safe Harbor_ this week.”

“Day after tomorrow,” Selwyn said, and Jaime beamed. He was really the kind of ridiculously handsome man Selwyn would have instinctively suspected, if Jaime hadn’t been so utterly and evidently devastated by what had happened to him when they’d first met. He’d turned toward Brienne as a flower turns to the sun, as if she was _gravity_ for him, and the way he’d looked at her had shattered all Selwyn’s doubts.

He was looking at her like that now, as if he could see what Selwyn saw in Brienne, as he wrapped his arm around her waist. “Please tell me that dinner doesn’t involve seaweed.”

“It’s very nutritious,” Brienne said, before Selwyn could say _of course not. _She gave her husband a wide-eyed, innocent stare. “And ecologically sound.”

Jaime gave a shout of laughter. “Wench, wench, wench,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “I _have_ corrupted you.”

Brienne smiled, the wide and happy smile she’d had as a child. “Perhaps a little. What _is_ for dinner, Dad?”

“Alyssane made us a casserole,” Selwyn said. “But you might not want to eat with us, tonight.”

Brienne frowned. “Why not?”

Jaime was quicker on the uptake. “The house is finished?”

Selwyn nodded, and dug the keys out of the pocket of his coat. He held them out, and Brienne took them. “I gave it a good going-over and I couldn’t find any problems, but you’ll want to have a look yourself before you sign off. Your furniture’s not here, but Alyssane and I stocked the fridge and I put some of the furniture from those fancy tents in so you’ve got somewhere to sit and somewhere to sleep, if you want.”

“What do you think, wench?” Jaime asked.

She closed her hand around the keys. “I’d like to see it. But I still want to have dinner with Dad and Alyssane.”

“Done,” Jaime said instantly.

“I’ll drive you up to Dreamfyre Point now,” Selwyn said, and led the way to the car.

He’d spent much of the construction firmly determined to keep his opinions to himself. If his goodson wanted to build some wild movie-star mansion and his daughter was alright with it, then Selwyn would be alright with it too. It was way up on the point, after all, so no matter how much of an eyesore it was, it wouldn’t be bothering anyone but a few walkers. It was a relief, then, to be able to pull up at the gate and say quite honestly, “It turned out well, I thought.”

“Oh, Dad.” Brienne peered through the windshield and then got out of the car. “You were absolutely right about the porch.”

Jaime hopped out of the back seat, Tess following him, and went to join Brienne as Selwyn double-checked the handbrake. “What do you think, wench?” He ran his hand over the smooth grey stone of the high wall that screened the house from the road. “They couldn’t quite match Evenfall Hall, but it’s close.”

Brienne found the fob on the keyring Selwyn had given her, and opened the gate. Selwyn hung back a little as she and Jaime went through hand-in-hand. He could hear Brienne exclaiming again over the porch, which he had suggested wrap right around the side of the house. It made it lopsided, because there was a high blank wall extending out from the right side of the house that concealed the tourney yard, and that lopsidedness lent the whole house an organic charm that was at least a little like the houses in Evenfall, added to and extended over generations. The porch was wood, fine teak from the Summer Isles, but the rest of the house was the same grey stone as the shielding wall. Jaime had wanted slate for the roof as well, the same blue slate as Evenfall Hall, but Selwyn and Brienne together had persuaded him that treated steel was infinitely more practical, given the storms that swept over Dreamfyre Point in the winter and given that the solar panels would hide most of it anyway. The storm shutters were the same steel too, and the downpipes.

Selwyn wandered after the two youngsters after giving them another few moments to explore their new home alone. Brienne was in the kitchen, entranced by the most expensive stove in what had to be the whole of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Upstairs, Jaime was yelling something about _sunset_ while Tess’s claws clicked on the wooden floor as she pattered from room to room. “It’s alright, then, sweetling?”

“Oh, Dad.” She turned, beaming, and flung her arms around him. “It’s perfect. And we could never have got it done so quickly without you.”

He returned her embrace. “Well, you can’t just leave builders on their own.”

She snorted. “I’m sure the fact that you’re the Evenstar didn’t hurt their work ethic, either.”

“Wench!” Jaime clattered down the stairs. “The view from the bedroom is amazing! Come and see!”

Brienne gave Selwyn a final squeeze and stepped back. “Can you see Pentos?”

“Maybe with a telescope.” Jaime seized her hand and tugged her towards the stairs.

“I’ll be outside,” Selwyn called loudly after them. _There’s a very comfortable inflatable mattress in that room. And I do remember what it’s like to be a newly-wed. And what Brienne’s mother was like in the early months of carrying a babe. _“Might walk along the cliffs a bit.”

He gave them a good hour, enjoying the stiff breeze whipping off the Narrow Sea. He was half-way back when he saw Jaime’s huge dog Tess racing towards him along the path. For half-a-heartbeat he braced himself, but her ears were pricked forward and her tail was high. “How did you get out of the house?” he asked her as she skidded to a stop in front of him. Tess gave a sharp bark, turned, and raced back towards the house, stopping after a dozen yards and looking back at him. She barked again.

Selwyn hurried after her. After a moment he could see Jaime beyond her, sprinting towards him. The boy reached him and grabbed his arm, face white and eyes wild. “Car – the keys –”

“What is it?” Selwyn asked, not reaching for his car keys. “Goodson, what is it?”

“Brienne,” Jaime gasped, and fear seized Selwyn’s heart. “Brienne. She’s bleeding.” 


	160. Jaime LX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens next ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, I was going to hold this longer, but the world is upsetting enough, and you all deserve a resolution to any fictional cliff-hangers (GRRM, are you listening?)  
Specific chapter warning for miscarriage scare, anxiety/panic attack, past death in childbirth

_She was white as the tiles on the bathroom floor, even her lips were white, everything was white except for the blood pooling out from her legs, the blood on his hands, the blood on his shirt …_

Jaime wiped his hand again on his shirt and folded it back over Brienne’s. “Can’t you go faster?” he asked Selwyn.

The old man shook his head. “Not safely. Breathe, goodson. We’ll be in Morne in a few moments.”

_Breathe._ How could he fucking breathe when Brienne was dying? _ Jaime_, she’d said, coming back from the bathroom with her eyes wide and shocked. _Jaime, I’m bleeding._

His head was pounding like a war-drum and his heart was trying to thrash its way out of his chest.

Brienne gripped his hand tightly. “Jaime. Jaime, 3ER says that it probably isn’t anything – Jaime, look at me.” He couldn’t, he just _couldn’t_, couldn’t see the colour fading from her face, couldn’t see her eyes close – his stomach twisted and he tried to swallow back the bile that rose in his throat, couldn’t and had lean forward to spit it on the floor of Selwyn’s car. “Jaime. _Jaime._”

_“Jaime, Jaime, get mama the phone, please? I’m alright, sweetling, but I need to go to the hospital. Can you call three-three-seven for me? That’s my big brave boy. Thank you. Hold my hand, sweetling, will you? The ambulance will be here soon.”_

“We’re here,” Selwyn said, stopping the car and throwing the handbrake on. “Sweetling?”

“I’m doing alright, Dad,” Brienne said.

Jaime flung himself out of the car and hurled himself around to the other side. Brienne had already taken her seat-belt off and opened the door, so all he had to do was pull her arm over his shoulder and hoist her up. She yelped a protest, but he ignored it. “Selwyn, the door.” Selwyn stepped ahead of him to open the door of the _Morne Medical Centre_ – and _why the fuck don’t they have a hospital, a _real_ hospital, I’ll have to do something about that_ – so Jaime could carry Brienne inside.

“Jaime, I’m –” Brienne said.

“She’s bleeding,” Jaime roared at the receptionist. “We need a maester. _Now_!”

Staff scrambled with gratifying speed. _Dragons talk and lions roar, and between the two, Lannisters can get anything they want. _Another wave of nausea swept over him at the thought and he yielded Brienne to the medical staff with a gurney and bent double, retching.

“Goodson.” Selwyn put his arm over Jaime’s shoulders. “They’ll take care of her, come on –”

_“We’ll take care of her, son, don’t worry. You can ride with her in the ambulance, alright? She’ll be fine.” _His head was absolutely splitting, a pain that blinded him, and his heart was beating harder than should have been possible. _“Another IV, wide open, come on, come on!” So much blood, on the bright white floor, on his hands, on _her_ hands where he clutched them, blood everywhere except in her ice-white cheeks and lips – _His knees buckled and he went to the floor. _Oh gods be good I can’t, I can’t, I can’t do this, I can’t do this again …_

“Son,” Selwyn said firmly. “Brienne needs us. You have to breathe, and stand up, and come and be with her.” He gripped the back of Jaime’s neck. “She’ll forgive you if you can’t, but _I_ won’t. _Get up._”

Jaime got up. He let Selwyn steer him down the corridor, he managed to stay on his feet, and then they were in a cramped examination room, Brienne on the bed. _Jaime_, she said, reaching out for him, and he wiped as much of the blood off his hands against his shirt as he could and grasped her fingers.

“I’m here.” _I’m here, it’s alright, the ambulance will be here soon. _Lies, and the truth, and he hadn’t know which was which. Her face was so white, her green eyes dazed with pain, and Jaime clung to her hand and tried not think about the blood. “I’m here, it’s alright, I’m here.” Brienne said something, the doctor did – Jaime couldn’t make out the words through the buzzing in his ears – something about _twenty-two weeks _– “I’m here, it’s alright, we’ll get you medevac’d.” The maester was fiddling with some piece of equipment and Jaime snarled, “Why aren’t you _helping_ her? She’s _bleeding_.”

“Let’s see what we have,” the maester said. She pulled up Brienne’s shirt and put an instrument on her stomach.

“I don’t hear anything,” Brienne said quietly.

“Give me a minute to _find_ your babe.” The maester moved the instrument slowly. Suddenly a rhythmic, washing-machine sound filled the room, and she smiled. “Nice strong heartbeat, check. Now let’s get your jeans off and we’ll have a look. Dad, Grand-dad, just move up to by Mum’s head.”

Numbly, Jaime moved, still holding Brienne’s hand. “That’s good? The heartbeat?”

“Yes,” the maester said, draping a modesty sheet over Brienne’s legs. “Just lift your hips up for me, Mum, so I can get your jeans down without having to cut them off for you. Perfect. Mmm, just a little bit of spotting, it looks like. Knees up for me?”

_A little bit of spotting .._. _but there was so much blood, blood everywhere, on my hands, on the floor …_ Jaime blinked, and looked at his hands clutching Brienne’s, perfectly clean. _But she was bleeding and bleeding _… The room spun around him and he leaned heavily against the edge of the examination bed. _Bleeding and bleeding … hold my hand, sweetling, everything’s alright … her hand going limp in his blood-stained grip …_

“Mmm,” the maester said again. “Now you’ll feel a sharp pinch. There. Alright, I’m done. I’m going to do a blood test to check the hormones in your blood, and I recommend you have another in a couple of days just to check that they’re level, but I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. I found a small polyp, which I’ve sampled for testing, but I expect it to be entirely benign.”

“Oh, I’ve had that for years,” Brienne said. “I’ve had it checked before.”

“There you are, then. But when you’re carrying a babe, there’s a lot more blood circulating around all those parts, and even a small amount of irritation can make a polyp bleed.” She went to the sink and washed her hands. “One in five women have some bleeding when they’re with child, and almost all of them go on to have perfectly normal pregnancies. Given that nice strong heartbeat, how little bleeding you had, and the fact that there’s a clear explanation in that polyp, I’m quite confident you’re not losing your babe. But I’ll do the blood test, and recommend you get a follow up, just to be certain.”

_How little bleeding _… Jaime blinked. “But there was so much blood.”

“No, Jaime, there really wasn’t, I was just frightened when I saw it,” Brienne said.

“It was everywhere, the floor, my hands …” 

“No, Jaime.” Brienne’s voice was gentle. “It wasn’t. Come on. Help me get my jeans back on so we can give the nice maester back her examination room.”

Numbly, he did. _She’s fine. The babe is fine_. And yet still, his heart hammered hard enough to break his ribs and his stomach wanted to turn itself inside out. He held tight to Brienne’s hand all the way back to Evenfall and tried to just breathe in and out, as Luwin had taught him, but it wasn’t working, the dreadful churning terror kept mounting and mounting until he was drowning in it. He was barely aware of where he was or what he was doing by the time Brienne got him out of the car and steered him into her father’s house. _We’re going upstairs, Jaime_, she said, and they did, Tess trailing after them, into Brienne’s old bedroom where she put him into the bed and lay down next to him, wrapped her arms around him and held him close. _Alright, you’re alright, I’ve got you_, she whispered, running her fingers through his hair as Tess squeezed herself onto the bed as well to lean against his back.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Jaime managed to say at last. “All the blood. I _saw_ the blood. On my hands, on the floor. I _saw_ it.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Brienne said. “When you’re feeling a bit better.”

“You asked me to get you the phone, to call three-three-seven for you.”

“No, Jaime.” Brienne’s voice was very gentle. “I asked you to go and find Dad, so he could drive us to Morne.”

He _had_ gone to find Selwyn, Tess streaking ahead of him, running along the cliff path until his lungs were like to burst. Jaime could remember that. _So why do I remember calling the ambulance? Why do I remember being _in_ the ambulance? _

_“You have to wait outside, now, son,” and the maester who tells him that is an absolute _giant_ of a man, Jaime has to look up to try to meet his gaze, and then he’s outside the room standing on tiptoes to try and see through the window in the door, but all he can make out is the backs of the maesters and the nurses and then a thin, indignant cry, but he can’t see –_

_Mama. He can’t see Mama, but they bring out his new brother and tell Jaime he can go to the nursery with him, his Mama would want him to – and it’s the _would_ that tells him, long before anyone officially says _Jaime, I’m sorry, but your mother lost a lot of blood. _But the nurse is right, Mama _would_ want him to go with his little brother, because he’s tiny and helpless and doesn’t have a mother any more than Jaime does anymore, and he shouldn’t be alone without anyone who loves him_.

_And he never will, Jaime vows. He _never_ will._

“Jaime?” Brienne asked softly.

“It was Mama,” he said. “When she died. Brienne. I was _there_.” The tears started, the words streaming out of him with them, the blood, his mother so pale and getting paler and paler, asking him to hold her hand, the ambulance, the hospital, Jaime staying with her despite every suggestion he wait outside because she wanted him to hold her hand and so he would, he _would_, right up until her hand went limp in his and they _made_ him leave, and then Tyrion, small and helpless and perfect and so lovable and so in need of love, and Aunt Genna, and his father, and if he’d just snuck out of school early he would have been _there_ when his mother needed him –

“Jaime, you were just a little boy,” Brienne said, carding her fingers through his hair. “Just a little boy.”

“And then I couldn’t protect him, father _hated_ him, hated that he wasn’t perfect in the way our father defined perfection, blamed him for Mama dying, and I couldn’t find a way to make him stop. Mama would have, but I couldn’t, I failed her, over and over, it’s the one thing she would have wanted –”

“No,” Brienne said, very firmly. “No, Jaime. The one thing that your mother would have wanted for Tyrion is that he have all the love she would have given him. And you did that very well indeed.”

He buried his face against her neck. “Crone’s cunt, wench, I’m sorry. You needed me, and I just … fell apart. If your dad hadn’t been there … if something had been really wrong …”

“But he was, and there wasn’t. Hush.” She rubbed his back. “I mean, you should probably talk to Maester Luwin about it, for _your_ sake, but it’s alright.” She chuckled softly. “Although I may never live down the drama of our entrance, locally. If someone put that in a script, you’d snort and tell me how hackneyed it was for at least fifteen minutes.”

He smiled, feeling the last of the panic leaving him. Leaden exhaustion replaced it. “So tired,” he mumbled against Brienne’s neck.

“Then rest, just rest,” she said, and he closed his eyes and did just that.


	161. Jaime LXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king of breakfast eggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! I decided I needed to write some chapters in between the last one and the one I thought would be next. And then my internet went down … and stayed down.   
Chapter warning for past death in childbirth.

_Jaime, I’m going to get up and get something to eat. Are you hungry? _Brienne whispered. _Jaime?_

“Mmm,” he managed, tangled somewhere in between wakefulness and a sweet dream where he and Brienne sheltered together in a fragile tent while a blizzard howled overhead.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “Jaime? Is that alright?”

“Mmm,” he said again. Brienne slipped from his arms and crawled out from under the covers, tucking them back up around him when she had. “Brienne,” he mumbled.

“Back in a moment,” she said, and kissed him. The bed was too big without her, but Tess was leaning heavily against Jaime’s back, and the sheets where Brienne had been were warm and smelt of her shampoo, so Jaime rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. He drifted in a warm darkness lit by a flickering fire, Tess pressing against his back, until Brienne slipped back in next to him. “Move over,” she whispered, so he did, and she wrapped her arms around him again and drew his head down to her shoulder. “How are you?”

“Good,” Jaime mumbled, and sank back down into a comfortable doze. The next thing he knew, the thin grey light of dawn was creeping around the edge of the blinds. He turned his face away from the light, but there was no way to ignore the fact that he was awake, and hungry, and needed the privy. He began to untangle himself from Brienne.

“Hush,” she murmured, arms tightening around him.

“It’s morning,” he said. “And I need to pee.”

“Hmmph.” She let him go and rolled over.

Jaime nudged Tess to the foot of the bed, slipped out from under the covers and sought the bathroom. His most urgent needs dealt with, he crawled back into bed and wrapped his arms around Brienne. “Do you want an omelette? Or toast? Or both?”

“Scrambled eggs and toast,” she mumbled, curling against him. “But not yet, don’t go yet.”

“Alright.” He stroked her hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Out of sorts,” Brienne said. “I didn’t sleep much.” She wrapped her arm around his waist. “But nothing babe-related, no cramping or anything, don’t worry.”

He kissed her forehead. “I worry about _you_, as well, wench, not just your fitness as an incubator.”

She snorted. “I honestly do feel a little bit like one at times.”

“Do you want anything with your eggs?”

“Just plain,” she said, letting go of him. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“No, stay.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll bring it up. Tea?”

“My one cup a day,” she grumbled. “I miss coffee more than you could believe. Even Qohor Roast.”

Jaime grinned. “The very height of deprivation.” He kissed her cheek again and scrambled out of bed, borrowing Brienne’s very warm robe from the back of her door. “I’ll be back in a bit. Tess, stay. I’ll bring your breakfast too.”

He was familiar enough with Selwyn’s kitchen to have little trouble finding the pan he wanted and set it on the stove. While it heated, he took out his phone. _Too early to call Luwin’s office. _On impulse, he found Tyrion’s number.

“It’s not an emergency,” Jaime said when Tyrion answered with a grunt. “But I wanted to ask you something.”

“I have to get Varys to make sure your calls go straight to voicemail outside civilised hours.”

“It’s important,” Jaime said. He tucked the phone between ear and shoulder and added butter to the pan. “I remembered something yesterday. Well, sort of remembered it, it’s just … images. Moments.” He put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. “Brienne thought she might be miscarrying.”

“Is she alright? Are you alright?” Tyrion asked, sounding suddenly wide awake.

“Yes, it wasn’t. It was a false alarm. But I …” Jaime paused, tilting the pan to let the butter coat it evenly. “Tyrion. I was there when … when you were born.”

“Well, yes.” Fabric rustled and then Jaime could hear his brother’s footsteps soft on carpet.

Jaime frowned, taking the pan off the heat. “How did you know that? _I_ didn’t know that.”

“I had Varys get the coroner’s report for me.” The espresso machine bubbled, Tyrion making his morning coffee in a kitchen that didn’t even know Qohor Roast existed. “You were identified as the maker of the three-three-seven call. And Aunt Genna said you were already there at the hospital when she arrived – long before father dragged himself away from his film, of course.” He paused. “I didn’t know you didn’t remember. I thought you’d never wanted to talk about it. And I – ” Tyrion paused again, a long silence. “I didn’t want to remind you that if it wasn’t for me –”

“Stranger take _that_ and the rest of father’s aurochshit,” Jaime snarled. “I wish you _had_ reminded me. I wish I’d remembered that they let me hold you in the nursery and you fell asleep for the first time in your life holding on to my finger. And I wish I’d known _before_ I fell to fucking pieces when Brienne needed me.”

“But she’s alright?”

“Yes.” Jaime put the pan back on the heat, found a bowl and began to crack eggs into it. “You know they don’t have a hospital on Tarth? Just a medical centre. We need to do something about that.”

“Leave it with me. What are you doing? It sounds like you’re smashing plates.”

“Cracking eggs.” Jaime picked up a fork and began to whisk the eggs. “Do you not cook _at all_?”

Tyrion chuckled. “Brother mine, I cook exactly as much as you used to before you fell in love with Brienne and felt the need to impress her with your self-sufficiency. If I want eggs for breakfast, Bronn will fetch them from the café on the corner.”

“I cooked before Brienne,” Jaime protested, tipping the eggs into the pan and letting them begin to set. “Well, before I was in love with her, at least.”

Tyrion snorted. “May I suggest you sit with that thought and perhaps examine it with your maester. When are you coming back to King’s Landing?”

“Next week.” Carefully, Jaime pushed the eggs to the centre of the pan. “Unless Brienne wants to go back sooner.”

“Come to dinner, then. I’ll flex my culinary muscles and order from _two_ different restaurants.”

Jaime laughed. “Make it three and I’ll persuade Brienne.”

“Done. And now, dear brother, I have to go and buy land on Tarth to build a hospital. Call me if you or Brienne need anything.”

“I will. Love you, Tyrion.”

Tyrion laughed, but his voice shook a little. “As if I didn’t know.”

Jaime put his phone down, finished the eggs, the toast, the tea, dug out a tray from under the sink to carry everything and made his way carefully back upstairs. “Breakfast,” he said to Brienne and Tess.

Brienne rolled over and sat up. “That smells amazing,” she said, holding out her hands for the tray. Jaime gave it to her carefully, needing to balance it on his right forearm since he still couldn’t completely trust his right hand to take the weight. “Oh, extra toast, Jaime, I love you.”

Jaime chuckled, took Tess’s bowl from the tray and set it on the floor for her. “Tyrion’s invited us for dinner when we get back to King’s Landing.”

“So long as he orders from that place that does the really good lemon pigeon,” Brienne said, and forked up a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “’aime, ‘ese are ‘erfect.”

He grinned at her. “You may be the queen of seafood, but I am the king of breakfast eggs.”

“I can get behind that division of labour,” Brienne said, and then devoted herself to her breakfast with the same silent concentration that Tess displayed in relation to hers.

Jaime waited until she was chasing the last scraps of egg around her plate with the last corner of toast. “So what do you want to do today?”

Brienne cornered the egg, captured it, and ate both it and the toast in two neat crunches. “I was thinking about going back to the house. But … not if you’re going to be nervous.”

“Shove over.” Brienne moved, and Jaime stretched out beside her, arm around her waist. “I don’t think I will, now I know why. But can we borrow your dad’s car, so I know I can get you to Morne if you need it? And if I _do_ get nervous, can we come back down here?”

Brienne put the tray carefully aside and leaned down to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “Yes, to both. Alyssane has her car here, she and dad can use that if they need to go somewhere. And of course we can come back if you get uncomfortable.”

He turned his face against her side. “And you’re sure you feel alright?”

She ran her fingers through his hair. “We can go down to Morne first so I can get another check-up, if you want. Oh, sorry, I’ve got egg in your hair.”

Jaime smiled against the swell of her stomach. “Tess will lick it out for me.”

“Jaime …” Brienne said, in the tone that he knew meant she was trying not to smile. She shifted a little, just a movement of her muscles. “If I come home one day to find you letting Tess wash our babe’s face after a meal …”

He chuckled. “Saves on cloths and washing up. Does your back hurt?”

“No. Why?”

“Because you’re not comfortable.”

She ran her fingers through his hair again. “Jaime, I’m fine.”

He sighed. “Wench, you can tell me. I felt you trying to move without disturbing me.”

“You …” Her fingers stilled. “No, Jaime. That wasn’t me you felt. The babe woke up and rolled over.”

Jaime raised his head to stare at her. Brienne smiled down at him, brilliant blue eyes bright with tears. “That was our babe?” She nodded wordlessly, and Jaime laid his cheek back against her stomach. “Is it alright? That they’re moving? There isn’t something wrong, they’re not upset –”

“It’s fine, the babe is fine, hush.” Brienne raised herself to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “It’s because I just ate. It’s a good thing. It’s just that it’s the first time … I felt it a few weeks ago, but the books say I shouldn’t expect you to be able to feel it for a few weeks yet, that’s all. Otherwise I would have made you try.”

He felt the movement against his cheek again. “Was that …?”

“Yes.”

“Gods be good,” Jaime murmured. _Our babe. _“Does it hurt?”

“No. The maester says it will be distracting, or even uncomfortable, when the babe is bigger, but now it just feels like … like gas, I guess.”

Jaime grinned, and pressed a kiss to the cloth stretched tight over her stomach. “Our sweet child, Flatulence.”

“Jaime!” Brienne protested, laughing.

“Well, what shall we name her?”

“Or him,” Brienne said.

“Duncan for a boy,” Jaime said firmly. “An old family name …”

Brienne swatted his shoulder gently. “That’s a fantasy of Tyrion’s dreamt up for marketing his resort.”

“It’s a story, and you know that stories are truer than fact,” Jaime corrected. “Duncan for a boy.”

Brienne snorted. “And a girl? Rohanne, I suppose?”

Jaime raised his head to smile at her. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it works. And if we have one of the other afterwards –”

“_No_, Jaime,” Brienne said firmly. “I am not raising two siblings named after the most famous romantic pairing in modern movies. Duncan if it’s a boy, Rohanne if it’s a girl, if it means that much to you, but after that we have to be more inventive.” She leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Besides, you’re the one who keeps talking about Gerion and Joanna.”

“_Joanne_,” Jaime said. “That’s the Tarth style, isn’t it? Duncan, or Joanne.”

“And Gerion?”

He chuckled. “Gerion has more than enough opportunity to beget his own namesakes, and probably has. But it’s a fine family name, for our second son.”

Brienne snorted. “You plan to set me to breeding how often, and for how long, then?”

“No,” Jaime said quickly. “I don’t plan anything. I was just …”

She carded her fingers through his hair, letting him know he was forgiven. “I know. You were talking to Tyrion. I’m not saying I’m set on this being our only child – not now the morning sickness is gone, if you’d asked me a month ago you’d have a different answer – but let’s not leave things to chance or assume the other has a glass candle, hmm?”

Jaime nodded, feeling a tiny hand or foot or head shiver beneath Brienne’s firm stomach as he did. “There was only you, for most of your life, and you turned out to be the best person I know. So perhaps we should have just one.”

“Perhaps we should decide what we think when we’ve experienced what it’s actually like to _have_ one,” Brienne said. 

“Amazing,” Jaime said without thinking about it. “The first time they smile at you …” _It’s just gas_, the nanny his father had hired had said sternly, but it hadn’t been, Jaime had known, it had been Tyrion looking up at him and knowing him and _smiling_ … “It’s like nothing else.”

“Well, and the first time you change a stinking diaper, and the first time they vomit in your hair, and the first ten thousand times they wake you at the hour of the wolf …”

“Maybe we should rethink Myrcella’s offer to be our nanny,” Jaime said. 

“You can be the one to tell Stannis, then,” Brienne said dryly. She ran her fingers through his hair one more time and then poked his shoulder. “Up. Our offspring is kicking me in the bladder, and I want to go up to the house to measure our living room to see if that couch you want will actually fit.”

Jaime wrapped his arm around her more tightly and held on a moment longer. “Duncan,” he said, kissed her stomach, and let her go. “Or Joanne.”

Brienne heaved herself out of bed. “I’m just grateful you’re not arguing for Maegelle. Or Jaehaerys. Or some dragon’s name.”

Jaime flopped back onto the pillow, reaching out to rub Tess’s ears as she rested her chin on the edge of the bed. “Sheepstealer Lannistarth, it has a ring to it.”

Already at the door, Brienne turned back to stare at him. “Jaime Lannister, I thought better of you.” She pinned him with her clear blue gaze, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sheepstealer _Cannibal_ Lannistarth, thank you very much.”


	162. Tyrion XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and conversation

Tyrion heard the front door open and stepped out into the hall. “It’s about time.”

Bronn picked up the handful of paper bags he’d put down to unlock the door, stepped inside, and kicked it shut behind him. “I would have been quicker if you’d been a little more specific,” he said. “Which_ best lemon pigeon_, I ask you? Or indeed, I _did_ ask you, only to have the entirely useless answer –”

“In the kitchen,” Tyrion said.

Bronn diverted from the dining room. “_All of them_, you said. So here we are.” He put his double arm-load of paper bags on the kitchen counter. “Every four-comet restaurant in King’s Landing that serves lemon pigeon. And sides. Are you planning to invite the entire Great Council?”

“The left-overs can go to the nearest soup-kitchen.”

“You could have just asked your goodsister which restaurant she meant,” Bronn said, opening the bags and extracting the containers inside with brisk efficiency.

“I did, she couldn’t remember.” Tyrion began to decant the takeaway into serving dishes.

Bronn snorted. “She’s got sweeter manners than Lollys. You could serve her something from the servo on the corner and she’d smile and compliment you on it.”

“Not the point,” Tyrion snapped. Although, if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t entirely sure what the point _was_, just that Jaime had asked him to make sure to include Brienne’s favourite dish in the takeaway order, and Tyrion was going to honour the request if he had to personally hire every decent chef in the entirety of the Crownlands. “Besides, Stannis is dropping Myrcella and Tommen off soon, and if he caught me serving his wards service-station sandwiches he’d never let them stay again.”

“And tell me again why I’ve been evicted to the couch when their, and I’ll be polite, _other cousin_ has a fucking mansion with enough spare rooms to sleep an entire melee?” 

“Myrcella has to give a statement at Baelish’s committal hearing tomorrow.” Tyrion searched his cupboards for more serving dishes. _I know I own more than two … _it had just been a considerable number of years since he’d bothered to do more than set the take-away containers on the table. Or his desk, many and more a night. “Anyway, isn’t it time you stopped sleeping here and started sleeping with your betrothed?”

“She won’t let me, until we’re wed.” Bronn slouched against the counter and made no effort to help Tyrion in his search. “She’s insisting on a full cloaking and everything. I blame your brother. She’s even started asking me to learn to ride a horse.”

Tyrion snorted. “You can _already _ride a horse.”

“And if you tell Lollys that, I’ll cut out your tongue,” Bronn said easily.

“I’ll keep your secret if you help me find those ceramic platters Aunt Genna gave me as a housewarming.”

“They’re in the attic.”

Tyrion turned to stare up at him. “Why are they in the _attic_?”

Bronn grinned. “Shae got sick of having to move them every time she wanted the punchbowl. Which, I know, is only once or twice a year but you have to admit, it’s once or twice a year more often than you use those platters.”

He _did_ have to admit it, so Tyrion kept a firm grip on his patience. “Then do you have any suggestions for what I can put the food on?”

Bronn shrugged. “The table? It’s not like the fucking Prime Minister is coming for dinner, is it?”

“Is it so much to ask that _for once_ we pretend to be civilised?” Tyrion snapped.

“Fine, fine.” Bronn raised his hands in surrender. “I’ll go look for the fucking platters.”

He’d only just headed up the stairs when the doorbell chimed. Tyrion cursed, and hurried to open the door.

It was Tommen and Myrcella, Stannis looming dourly behind them. Both the children crouched down to hug Tyrion, which wasn’t new, but neither of them stole a glance over their shoulder to make sure their mother wasn’t watching, which _was_, and which made Tyrion’s eyes burn a little. He hugged them back more fiercely than usual.

“We brought you a guest-gift,” Myrcella said. “Well, we paid for it, but Uncle Stannis had to buy it and carry it, because of the law. And he picked it for us, too.”

Stannis proffered a paper bag in a familiar bottle shape. “Hope it’s alright.”

Tyrion took the bag and withdrew the bottle. He raised his eyebrows at the azure badge with its cluster of purple grapes. “Arbor gold? It’s bound to be more than alright.” He glanced up at Stannis. “And the vintage … three years ago, widely agreed to be the best in a generation. I didn’t take you for a connoisseur.” 

Stannis coughed, and the corner of his mouth turned up a little. “Don’t mention it to Selyse. Any of you.”

“Will you stay to dinner, then, and have a glass?” Tyrion asked. “If we swear all present to secrecy?”

“By the most sincere and bloody oaths!” Myrcella added, and when all three of her relatives turned to stare at her, added defensively, “It’s from _The Merchant of Myr. _We’re doing it at school. I’m playing the Advocate.”

“Of course you are,” Tyrion said. Myrcella’s gaze flicked to him, her face suddenly still, and then relaxing into a smile when he went on, “You’re _my_ cousin, after all, and she has the greatest courtroom speech in all literature.”

“Have you ever made a speech like that?”

Tyrion chuckled. “I’m afraid most of the law I practice requires citing obscure precedents rather than making stirring appeals to morality. And I’m happy to bore you with them, but not on the doorstep. Stannis, do stay. My brother and goodwife are joining us, I honestly have more food than a horde of Dothraki could finish –”

“Steak?” Tommen asked. “Uncle Stannis likes steak.”

“Will YiTish beef do as a substitute?”

Stannis gave his small smile again. “It will. Thank you.”

Tyrion ushered them all inside and into the dining room as Bronn clattered back down the stairs with a box in his arms. “These are either your platters or your Last Dark decorations, not sure which,” he said laconically.

“Did you not mark the –” Tyrion stopped, and sighed. _Of course he didn’t mark the boxes_. “Fine. Let’s see.”

Fortunately, the box _did_ contain Aunt Genna’s platters. Tyrion was still trying to work out the best proportion of mains and sides to dish out when the doorbell sounded again. Bronn went to answer it and a moment later Brienne was looming above Tyrion. “Bronn said you needed some help?” she said.

There was no judgement in her expression, only gentle concern. “I usually just throw the takeaway containers on the table,” Tyrion admitted.

“Let’s see what we have,” Brienne said calmly, opening the rest of the bags. “Lemon pigeon, lemon pigeon, lemon pigeon …” She paused.

“I wanted to make sure I got the one you liked.”

“Oh, goodbrother.” Brienne startled him by going down on one knee and wrapping her arms around him. He tried not to flinch in anticipation of being crushed by her tremendous strength, but her embrace was gentle. “That’s so kind of you. Thank you.”

Gingerly, Tyrion put his arms as far around her massive shoulders as he could reach. “I looked it up. Food preferences when a woman’s with child are about needed nutrients.”

Brienne gave a snuffling laugh, and Tyrion realised she was half-crying. “You looked it up. Of course you did, you’re Jaime’s brother.” She held him a moment longer, and then sat back on her heels, rubbing the palms of her hands over her cheeks. “Is there anything besides lemon pigeon?”

“YiTish beef, boar ribs, clay-baked trout, and the sides. All the sides.”

“Right.” Brienne heaved herself to her feet. “One main per platter, one third of it only, two sides per platter, one third each.”

“One third.” Tyrion eyed the nearest platter. “I’ll see if I can find a ruler.”

“Tyrion,” Brienne said, and there was laughter in her voice but it wasn’t cruel, it was the way Jaime had laughed at him all the years of their childhood. “Just guess.”

He drew himself up to his meagre height and glared at her as theatrically as he could. “Goodsister, I am the Seven Kingdom’s most famous entertainment lawyer. I do not _guess_.”

She chuckled. “Alright, then. Make an ambit claim.”

“Now that,” Tyrion said, “that I can do.”

When they carried the platters into the dining room, Myrcella and Jaime were in the middle of what seemed to be a heated disagreement about _The Merchant of Myr_.

“But she’s the hero,” Myrcella protested, eyes blazing.

“Because she bent the law to destroy a man’s life and livelihood?” Jaime retorted.

“But he’s _bad_!”

“Dinner,” Tyrion said, reaching up to set the platter he carried on the table. “Bronn, there’s a bottle of Arbor gold chilling in the freezer, will you open it for us, please? Jaime, there’s glasses on the sideboard.”

Jaime stretched to reach them. “He’s bad according to _her_ opinion, but is he _really_ bad?”

Myrcella frowned. “He wanted to kill the Merchant.”

“Who’d been pretty awful to him.” Jaime set glasses at Stannis and Tyrion’s places, and reached for two more. “That’s the first thing we learn about the Moneylender, after all, in the very first act of the play. That the Merchant hates all Braavosi, and that he’s trying to drive the Moneylender out of business.”

“He’s just being kind!” Myrcella tried to intercept a wineglass, but Jaime deftly evaded her grasp and handed it to Bronn. “Letting people borrow money who needs it, without interest.”

“And how is the Moneylender going to make a living?”

Tyrion sighed, recognising the signs of Jaime on a roll. “Stannis, the YiTish beef is on the platter nearest to you. Tommen, that one there is trout.”

“I’m a vegetarian now,” Tommen said.

_Shit. _“Well, there’s vegetables, too. Um. I can order something else?”

“Tommen, in the kitchen, on the counter, in the second last paper bag to the left, there’s an entire container of chickpea salad with roast vegetables,” Brienne said. “Which is all yours, if you go and fetch it.”

“Excellent,” Tommen said happily, and hopped up to do just that. 

“Thank you.” Tyrion watched carefully as Brienne took a mouthful of lemon pigeon and smiled. _Good, I must have chosen one of the right restaurants_. He poured wine for the four adults who could drink as Brienne helped herself and the children to water from the jug on the table. “Jaime, the one by your elbow has nettle salad from the place on Shadowblack Lane.”

Jaime served himself with alacrity. “I thought you hated that place.”

“I do,” Tyrion said. “They under-sauce and under-dress everything. But –” he glanced at Bronn. “A certain person sent me a certain contract as your lawyer, and I took note of the start date for shooting. And I know what you’re like when you’ve got a role on the horizon.”

“Thanks, Tyrion,” Jaime said with a fond smile.

“The Moneylender could get a proper job,” Myrcella said, scooping green beans onto her plate.

“He couldn’t, though,” Brienne said mildly. “Not at the time. Braavosi were banned from almost all professions in Myr at the time Willem Stackspear wrote the play.”

Myrcella paused, spoon in mid-air, as Tommen came back and heaped his plate. “But that’s awful! That’s just _wrong!_”

“Are you really sure situational ethics are age-appropriate?” Tyrion asked Jaime beneath his breath.

“There’s nothing situational about _The Merchant of Myr_,” Jaime shot back, but he glanced at Stannis.

“Don’t look at me,” Stannis said mildly, watching Tommen carefully pick the beets out of his meal and return them to the carton. “I’ve seen it played both ways.”

“And if you were directing?” Jaime asked.

Stannis shrugged a little as Bronn filled his glass. “Depends on the cast.” He raised his glass and took a deep sniff before sipping the amber wine. “The ideal would be to play it _both_ ways. Have the audience sympathising with whichever character is on the screen at the time.” He gave his small, contained smile. “And then tearing their hair out in the final scene because they don’t know who they want to win.”

“The Merchant,” Myrcella said firmly. “I mean, alright, so maybe he’s a racist, but the Moneylender wants to _kill_ him, even when he could get twice his money back.”

Jaime grinned. “I didn’t say he was perfect. But none of them are. The Moneylender is vengeful, the Merchant is a bigot, the Advocate bends the law to have the Moneylender bankrupted and sentenced to death, and the Magister’s _mercy_ is to take only _half_ the Moneylender’s property and force him to leave the rest to his daughter – who’s run away and taken up with a slave-owner, something the Moneylender obviously hates.”

“Because he wants to marry her off to some old merchant for money,” Myrcella said.

“Because he’s _Braavosi_,” Jaime said. “Although I don’t know how much Stackspear knew about Braavosi attitudes to slavery, to be entirely honest.”

“You have among you many a purchased slave,” Stannis quoted grimly. “Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules, you use in abject and in slavish parts, because you _bought_ them. Shall I say to you, let them be free? You will answer, _the slaves are ours_.” He sipped his wine. “He knew.”

“And then, to keep even half his wealth and avoid starving on the street, the Moneylender is obliged to show he accepts Myrish ways by purchasing and owning slaves.”

Myrcella frowned. “Are you sure?”

Stannis snorted. “You need to read _all_ the script, niece, not just your own sides. Jaime’s right. Although not about the dragons. The Moneylender is forced to leave it to his daughter’s _husband._”

“That’s worse,” Myrcella said slowly. “Although I suppose people thought about slavery differently then.”

“The Braavosi didn’t,” Brienne said crisply, then softened her tone with a smile. “And I’ll wager a fair few of the slaves didn’t, either. It’s a bit like sexism. You read about some ancient king locking his wife up in her rooms and keeping her a prisoner, and half the people on the ice and fire boards will argue that he was a good man and it was the way of the times – meanwhile the people actually _of_ the times were writing ballads about his poor wife and making notes in the margins of their chronicles about how awful he was.” 

“So Stackspear _wants_ us to hate the Merchant?” Myrcella asked doubtfully.

“Not being the Bloodstone Emperor, I can’t tell you what Stackspear wanted, given how very thoroughly dead he is,” Jaime said. He grinned. “But neither can anyone else, so read the play and make up your own mind.”

She bit her lip. “But if the Advocate isn’t good … I mean, she has that speech about mercy.”

“And then _she’s_ the one who brings up the law that says everything he owns is forfeit, as is his life,” Jaime pointed out. “Not super merciful, that.”

Myrcella looked down, pushing her food around on her plate. “I don’t know if I want to play her, if she’s awful.”

“Maybe she’s not awful,” Tyrion said, frowning at Jaime. “Maybe she’s just a very, _very_ good lawyer.” He took a substantial gulp of his wine, earning a disapproving glance from Stannis. “Maybe she wants to win so much she gets carried away.”

“Not that such a thing would happen to anyone at this table,” Bronn said, and returned Tyrion’s glare with a sunny smile.

“If you don’t want to do it, I can tell the school I’m worried that your extra-curricular activities aren’t leaving you enough time for your homework,” Stannis said.

Myrcella poked at her food. “So you think I _shouldn’t_ do it?”

“No, I think you should. You gave your word, you made a commitment, you should keep that commitment. But you’re old enough to make up your own mind.”

“What if I’m terrible?” she asked very softly.

“If you want to be an actor, and I don’t know if you _do_ or you auditioned for the school play because you have a crush on someone in the cast –” Jaime paused as Myrcella’s cheeks crimsoned. “Either way. Everyone is terrible, sometimes. Often because of something you can’t control. You’re miscast, or badly directed, or the script is terrible, or the editing is a disaster … I mean, _Gods of Tolos _didn’t even get a cinema release. You just have to brace up and do your best.”

“_Gods of Tolos_?” Brienne said. “I thought I knew all the movies you’ve made.”

Jaime grinned at her as Tyrion, Stannis, and Bronn laughed. “My one-and-only effort to escape type-casting. It’s beyond terrible, wench. It makes _Belaquo the Barbarian_ look like a triumph of sophisticated film-making. We’ll watch it tomorrow night and I’ll have a maester standing by with an oxygen mask for when you laugh so hard you can’t breathe.”

“It can’t be _that_ bad, if you’re in it,” Brienne said stoutly.

“It’s _that_ bad,” Tyrion and Stannis said in unison.

“It really is,” Tommen chimed in. “I mean, Uncle Jaime was fine, but he was sort of in a different movie to everyone else.”

“The fact that they made a film about Tolos without any Tolosi didn’t help,” Stannis said, eying the remains of the YiTish beef.

“Pass your uncle the beef,” Tyrion told Tommen. “And the CGI was … well, interesting.”

“Terrible,” Jaime said.

“It wasn’t the special effects so much,” Bronn said. “It was more that they didn’t match up with the people _at all_.”

“And the fight scenes were atrocious,” Jaime said.

Bronn snorted. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“_Anyway_,” Jaime said firmly. “The point is, Myrcella, that if you don’t do things that you aren’t guaranteed to be amazing in, you won’t do much. And I’m sure Tyrion could give you some tips on playing a cut-throat lawyer.”

“I don’t _play_ a lawyer,” Tyrion pointed out. “I _am_ one.”

Jaime chuckled. “You’re forgetting all those acting lessons I gave you when you were studying. Performing is performing.”

“Will you?” Myrcella asked Tyrion.

“Of course. But both Jaime and Stannis would probably have more useful advice.”

“Learn your lines, hit your marks, don’t trip over the furniture,” Jaime said promptly, and winked at Brienne. “All of which is a lot harder than you’d think. Do you have a voice coach yet?”

“What’s wrong with my voice?” Myrcella asked.

“Nothing’s wrong with your voice, I meant, to teach you to project.”

“It’s a _school play_,” Stannis said mildly.

“I’m sure there’s some useful exercises on RookTube,” Tyrion said hastily. “Or Jaime could show you some after dinner.”

“Easy,” Jaime said. “It’s not hard to learn, it’s just how you breathe, really, but you do have to really practice a lot to get it down.”

“And if I …” Myrcella hesitated. “If I weirchat you, could you help me rehearse?”

“Happy to,” Jaime said. “But don’t forget you’re living beneath the same roof as one of the Seven Kingdom’s most acclaimed directors.”

“Hardly,” Stannis said dourly.

Jaime grinned at him. “No false modesty, Stannis. Not just anybody wins an Iron Throne. Or gets offered the double-oh-three franchise.”

Myrcella bit her lip. “Would you mind?” she asked Stannis. “I mean, I know how busy you are, with the new film coming up …”

“I’m sure I can find the time,” Stannis said gruffly, and Myrcella beamed.

“I’ll help too, Myrs,” Tommen piped up. “Meraxes and me can be the audience.” 

Myrcella reached over to ruffle his hair. “Thanks, Tommen, that will really help.”

“Not to lower the tone of the conversation,” Bronn said, “But is anyone going to eat those last boar ribs?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Merchant of Myr" is, of course, based on another play that I can claim no credit whatsoever for.


	163. Jaime LXII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grumkins and princes and brothers, oh my!

Stannis glanced at his watch, cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows.

Jaime took out his phone and checked the time. “Bedtime, Tommen. Leave your phone on the sideboard.”

Tommen took his phone out and turned it off. “Will you tell me more about Ser Pounce?”

“I will indeed,” Jaime promised, getting up. “If you brush your teeth, even the back ones, and wash your face including under your chin –” Tommen gave him a perplexed look and Jaime grinned. “Sorry. I forgot I wasn’t talking to my little brother.”

“Hah very hah,” Tyrion said. “Especially coming from the big brother who was responsible for my first three fillings with all those iced milks and honeyed fruit at the cinema.”

“Goodnight, uncle,” Tommen said, going to hug Stannis. “Good night, Brienne, good night, Tyrion. Night, Myrs.”

“Sleep well, kitten,” Myrcella said, tousling his hair.

“I left Tess at home to keep Leo company,” Jaime said, following Tommen up the stairs. “Will you be alright if there are any new noises?”

Tommen nodded. “I’ve stayed here before. I know what the noises are.”

“Old houses do creak and groan. Where’s your toothbrush?”

“In my bag.” Tommen paused. “Which is downstairs. In the hall.”

“Wash your face, I’ll get it.”

“It’s the blue one,” Tommen said, going into the bathroom.

Jaime went downstairs again, collected the blue bag, and brought it to Tommen, who had an inch-deep fringe of wet hair around his face bearing witness to his thorough face-washing. He supervised Tommen’s tooth-brushing, which was most definitely more thorough than Tyrion’s had ever been, towelled Tommen’s hair dry, and tucked him in to the bed in one of Tyrion’s spare rooms. _The one Bronn usually sleeps in,_ he realised, discreetly pushing the corner of a certainly not age-appropriate magazine back under the bed with his toe as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “So, where were Ser Pounce and the prince, do you remember?”

“At the bridge,” Tommen said. “But you don’t have to tell me. I wanted to talk to you, privately.”

Jaime blinked. “Alright,” he said. “Is something wrong? Is something bothering you?”

Tommen shook his head. “Not me. But you should make up with Tyrion.”

Jaime blinked again. “I’m not fighting with Tyrion.”

“He thinks you are.”

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t,” Jaime reassured Tommen.

Tommen sighed. “He brought you a mouse,” he said patiently.

Jaime stared down at him. “I’m fairly sure I’d remember if Tyrion gave me a mouse,” he said at last.

Tommen rolled his eyes. “Not a real mouse. The food. All Brienne’s favourites. All _your_ favourites. Things he doesn’t like. And the way he looked at you to make sure you liked it. He’s trying to make up with you.”

“But we’re not fighting,” Jaime said again. True, Tyrion had been a little … _something_ this evening, but that would be because of Shae’s absence. _Perhaps they’ve argued. _“Honestly, Tommen. We’re not.”

Tommen gazed up at him, green eyes solemn. “Does he know that?”

“Of course he does.” Jaime ran his hand over Tommen’s hair. “Now. Ser Pounce and the prince came to a bridge. It was great, tall bridge, narrow, shaky, spanning a deep ravine with a river crashing over rocks far, far below …”

The prince and Ser Pounce had negotiated passage with the grumkin (who was only grumpy because no-one liked him, and who yielded to the prince’s kind words) and crossed the bridge and traversed a dark forest filled with frightening shades of all the prince’s greatest fears (_Face them and they will flee_, Ser Pounce advised the prince, and he was right) and set out on the road to the giant’s lair before Tommen’s eyes closed and his breathing slowed into sleep.

Jaime made sure the covers were securely tucked around Tommen’s shoulders and went back downstairs.

“The quality of mercy is not _strained_,” he could hear Myrcella declaiming as he approached the dining room. “It droppeth as the gentle rain from the _heavens_ …”

Jaime rolled his eyes, and pushed open the door. “It is twice blessed. It blesses him that gives and him that takes. Mightier than the mightiest, it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown.” He grinned at her. “Or _her_ crown, old Willem should have said, but then, I suppose it wouldn’t scan. Forget it’s written in verse, and just listen for the _sense_ of it.”

She bit her lip, frowning. “My teacher says it’s written like poetry, and we should read it like poetry.”

Stannis snorted. “Your teacher sounds like a patch-faced fool, then. Jaime’s right – it’s a speech, not a poem.”

“Is she trying to persuade the moneylender, or trap him?” Myrcella asked.

“Good question,” Jaime said. “And as the actress, the answer’s entirely up to you. Try it both ways while I help Tyrion with the dishes. Stannis will give you notes.”

“And I’ll heckle,” Bronn said helpfully.

“In that case, I’ll be the bouncer evicting unruly patrons,” Brienne said calmly and Jaime laughed at the look on Bronn’s face.

He stacked the dishes into two piles, gave one to Tyrion, and headed for the kitchen. Setting the dishes on the counter, he closed the door behind Tyrion as casually as he could.

_Not casually enough_, he realised as Tyrion stopped dead and looked up at him with a certain wariness. “Am I your lawyer or your brother right now?”

“Brother,” Jaime said. He smiled. “I lead a quiet respectable life now, little brother, no midnight calls for bail these days.”

Tyrion stepped up onto the low shelf that ran the length of the kitchen counter and put the dishes he carried down. “You don’t usually close the door unless you need to talk to your lawyer.”

“Are you fighting with Shae?” Jaime asked. “Is that why she’s not here?”

Tyrion looked startled. “What? No. The manager at Chataya’s is on leave, so Shae’s there most evenings for the rest of this week.”

Jaime leaned against the counter. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Tyrion opened the dishwasher and began to load in the serving platters.

“Oh, let me,” Jaime said, taking the first one from him and putting it in the sink. “You’ll clog the drainage pipe if you don’t at least _rinse _them.” He grinned down at his brother. “Brienne gave me an hour-long lecture on the fact while she hauled the dishwasher out to clean and rinse said drainage pipe. And don’t give me that _nothing._ Even Tommen noticed.”

“Tommen noticed?” Tyrion echoed.

Jaime nodded, scraping leftovers from a platter and handing it to Tyrion to put in the machine. “He thinks we’re fighting. I told him we’re not.” He paused. “We’re not, right? I didn’t miss something? I know I called you early the other day –”

“Jaime, _no_,” Tyrion said quickly. “I truly didn’t mind. You know how I like to complain.” He summoned up a smile, the same smile Jaime had seen all too many times when they were growing up. _No, look, I’m fine, it doesn’t bother me,_ that smile said. _It doesn’t bother me in the slightest, what they say, what father said, that they took my bag at school and threw it in the fountain, that the teacher pretends not to see when I raise my hand in class because my arms, she says, are too short to notice, it doesn’t bother me, it truly doesn’t._

At fifteen, Jaime hadn’t quite finished growing or filling out but he had already needed to carry his school student ID to get a concession ticket at the Lannisport cinema. He’d put on his best suit, stolen a tie from Tywin’s wardrobe, and walked Tyrion to school the next day. _I don’t know if you quite understand what will happen if my brother continues to be bullied_, he’d told the principal with a smile he’d practiced in the mirror, sharp as a knife. _For one thing, your future career options are going to be severely limited. Of course, Stonedance Secondary might be exactly where you want to spend the rest of your working life, in which case … do nothing._

“Jaime?” Tyrion said tentatively.

Jaime crouched down. “I was just remembering something.”

Tyrion nodded. “Our mother.”

Jaime frowned. “No. I was remembering that fuckwit teacher you had and how I got him sacked.” He gripped Tyrion’s arm. “Tell me what’s wrong, little brother. If you don’t tell me, I can’t help.”

“I didn’t know you didn’t know,” Tyrion said after a moment. “I thought … I thought you just … Does it make a difference?”

“Oh, fuck, Tyrion, and I thought _I_ was the one who gave our father too much rent-free space in my head.” Jaime pulled Tyrion into an embrace. “Of course it doesn’t make a difference. It isn’t _news_, is it, how our mother died? I knew _that_. I just didn’t remember that she hadn’t been alone, that _you_ weren’t alone.” He ruffled Tyrion’s hair, as he’d done so many times when they were both just boys. “And _yes_, being blindsided by that was less than pleasant, and I foresee many a conversation with Luwin about it in my future, but I’m _glad_ to know our mother wasn’t by herself.”

Tyrion gave a slightly shaky laugh, and returned Jaime’s hug. “I honestly thought I’d dealt with all this.”

“She used to make me read to you,” Jaime said, remembering it for the first time. “In the last couple of months. She said you could already hear voices and she wanted you to know mine.” He let Tyrion go and sat back, smiling at the memory. “I say _made_ me, but I used to follow her around with a book, waiting for her to sit down for five minutes.”

Tyrion sniffed a little. “What book? Some play, no doubt.”

Jaime smiled. “I didn’t want to bore you. We did _Shaena’s Web_, _Chayle and the Chocolate Factory, Little Wenches_, _The Secret Godswood_, _Helicent the Spy_ … the point being, I loved you before I met you, and at least our mother knew that.” He paused. “Is that all that’s bothering you? Honestly?” Tyrion nodded, and Jaime ruffled his hair again, smiling to see the familiar expression of pleased annoyance on Tyrion’s face as he ducked away and raked it back to its usual artful disarray. “I love you, little brother. I always have and I always will.” He stood up and began to scrape the rest of the platters clean. “Was the contract from Aegon Productions alright?”

“I’m going to negotiate a few things with them.” Tyrion took the serving dishes as Jaime handed them to him and loaded them into the dishwasher.

“Tyrion, I really want to do this, don’t scare them off,” Jaime warned.

“Have a little faith,” Tyrion said with great and theatrical offence. “It’s just the dance, Jaime, you know that. They offer less than you’d ever accept, I ask for more than they’d ever give, in a few weeks we’ll reach the midpoint that we both knew we’d agree on from the beginning of the process.”

Jaime paused, staring at the last platter. “You should tell Myrcella that,” he said after a moment. “I mean, what if _that’s _what the Advocate was doing? She just …”

“Miscalculated her opponent,” Tyrion said dryly. “Which happens to us all, from time to time, and _no_, Jaime, I’m not miscalculating this time, I was at the Citadel with Aegon’s chief counsel, she’s just justifying her sizeable paycheque. The only sticking point is going to be paternity leave, I might have to take the gloves off for that. Would you take it unpaid?”

Jaime snorted. “For what you’ll no doubt be getting me for the film? Fuck, yes.”

“That’ll help. Not that it will make much difference to their bottom line, but they’ll feel like they’ve had a win.”

Jaime handed the last serving dish to Tyrion. “And tomorrow? With Myrcella?”

“She’ll be fine,” Tyrion said firmly. He closed the dishwasher door. “No cross-examination at a committal hearing, it’s just for the judge to assess the strength of the evidence. And Bywater must have _something_ more than Myrcella’s statement if he’s moved to charge, I’ll be interested to find out what. And now, if you look in the fridge, there’s a cake from Tysane’s for dessert.”


	164. Ravens XVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A variety of ravens and ravengrams

_Sansa@Winterfell: I’m here in King’s Landing at the justiciar court for the committal hearing of Petyr Baelish and I’ll be ravening out what happens as the day progresses as part of Freefolk Fortnightly’s new weirnet news coverage._

_Sansa@Winterfell: Baelish was arrested in The Eyrie by Vale law enforcement at the request of the Gold Cloaks and extradited to King’s Landing for trial in line with the full faith and credit provision of the Seven Kingdom’s articles of unification, and if any of my readers can explain what that is, please jump in _

_Sansa@Winterfell: As you can imagine I’m particularly interested in this hearing because the charges of conspiracy to murder and accessory to murder are for the murder of my own father, Eddard Stark._

_Sansa@Winterfell: But I’m not the only reporter here, the press box is absolutely packed. Mockingbird Publications is a big player in the Westeros media landscape and everyone wants to know what’s going to happen to the man who made it the tabloid powerhouse it is today. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: Baelish has been brought in by two bailiffs. He’s not handcuffed, and his suit looks like a thousand dragons. I’d heard he hadn’t been granted bail in advance of this hearing but it looks like the rumour was wrong. _

_Imp@ImpsDelight @ Sansa@Winterfell: full faith and credit just means that the courts and the police respect each other’s decisions. And defendants always get to clean up before hearing or trial so they don’t bias juries by looking like they’re in jail._

_Sansa@Winterfell @ Imp@ImpsDelight: Thank you!_

_Sansa@Winterfell: Baelish’s lawyer is now telling the justiciar that the charges should be thrown out straight away. The justiciar lets him finish and then just says ‘no.’ the lawyer doesn’t seem surprised. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: now Commander Jacelyn Bywater of the Gold Cloaks is telling the justiciar about the evidence they have against Baelish. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: A witness heard him talking to Joffrey Baratheon and inciting him to murder my father_

_Sansa@Winterfell: another witness will tell the court that he sold Baelish a gun of the same make as the one Joffrey Baratheon used to murder my father_

_Sansa@Winterfell: Bywater says that he will tender CCTV and other evidence to establish that Baelish was present at the time and place the witnesses say_

_Sansa@Winterfell: He says he will also call a technical expert to talk about the gun. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: Baelish’s lawyer says that there is insufficient evidence to secure a conviction even if the justiciar believes all of it and asks again for everything to be dropped. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: Gross, Baelish just looked at the press box and smiled at me_

_Sansa@Winterfell: Justiciar Merryweather asks Bywater if he intends to introduce any further evidence. Bywater says no. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: He says that the investigation is ongoing and Baelish’s arrest was necessary to prevent him from destroying any evidence or interfering with witnesses once he became aware he was a suspect._

_Sansa@Winterfell: He says that with respect, it is not the role of the committal court to predict a conviction at a full trial but to determine whether the evidence is sufficient to support a charge. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: He says he can put the gun that killed my father, Eddard Stark, in Baelish’s hand and he can show that Baelish gave it to Joffrey Baratheon for the purpose of killing my father. The evidence will establish the elements of the crime Imp@ImpsDelight what does that mean? _

_Imp@ImpsDelight @ Sansa@Winterfell: The things you have to do or mean to do for something to be a crime according to the law. Basically a criminal act with the intent of committing a crime, depends on what specifically is charged. _

_Sansa@Winterfell @ Imp@ImpsDelight: Accessory to murder?_

_Imp@ImpsDelight @ Sansa@Winterfell: Criminal act – assisting and/or encouraging someone to commit murder. Criminal intent: meaning that to help that person to do it._

_Sansa@Winterfell @ Imp@ImpsDelight: How can you not mean it? _

_Imp@ImpsDelight @ Sansa@Winterfell: Me – my housemate ate the last of the oatmeal again, I’m going to kill him. You – you should get some and poison it or something to teach him a lesson. If I go and do that, your defence is that you thought I was speaking rhetorically and you didn’t think I’d actually do it._

_Imp@ImpsDelight @ Sansa@Winterfell: If however you went and bought poison and gave it to me to put in the oatmeal, you’d be where Baelish is now._

_Sansa@Winterfell @ Imp@ImpsDelight: Thank you._

_Sansa@Winterfell: The first witness is being called, Myrcella Baratheon. Myrcella is the daughter of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister, and the sister of Joffrey Baratheon. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: She comes into the courtroom accompanied by her cousin Tyrion Lannister. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: Wearing a white blouse and a pale peach skirt, she takes the oath in a quiet but firm voice. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: The justiciar asks her if she’s alright, and she says she is. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: Bywater asks her to tell the court what she heard and saw the night before my father was murdered. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: She says she overheard Baelish telling Joffrey Baratheon that if my father was allowed to talk, he (JB) would lose his inheritance from his father. That my father had to be silenced. That he could use ‘this’. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: The justiciar asks if she’s sure what she heard and she says yes she’s sure._

_Sansa@Winterfell: he asks if she’s sure it was Baelish and she says that she saw him come out of the room a moment or two later and then she went in and there was only Joffrey there, so yes, she’s sure. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: he asks why she didn’t tell anyone at the time and she says she doesn’t know, she was scared of everything that was happening and she just didn’t talk about it._

_Sansa@Winterfell: the justiciar asks why she finally told what she heard and Myrcella Baratheon again says she doesn’t know. “It just came out.”_

_Sansa@Winterfell: The justiciar seems satisfied and Myrcella Baratheon is excused. _

_Sansa@Winterfell: And that’s the lunch break, I’ll be back this afternoon._

* * *

11:22 Me: _Raven when you get out._

11:32 Me: _I really wish I cd b there with you but Tyrion said it would be a circus_

11:33 Me: _Hope it was alright_

12:10 Myrcella: _It was fine. And I’m glad u and ur paparazzi weren’t here_

12:11 Me: _Tommen and I r at the zoo. Want 2 join?_

12:14 Myrcella: _Going to chill at Tyrions 4 a bit. He has the Mercant of Mry with Ynyn Yronwood as the advocate, were’ going 2 watch it_

12:16 Me: _ok cool that’s a good 1. _

12:18 Me: _coming 4 dinner or staying at Tyrions 2nite?_

12:25 Myrcella: _coming 4 dinner and staying at yours, is that ok? _

12:26 Me: _of course_

* * *

12:27 Me: _she is alright?_

12:29 Little Bro: _she’s fine. Obviously a legal hearing isn’t a clambake on the Salt Shore, but she did well _

12:30 Me: _she pretdnes well. She might not b ok. _

12:31 Little Bro: _oh you mean she’s like you? Good thing I’m trained. _

12:45 Little Bro: _she’s installed in the living room with four versions of the Merchant of Myr, the remote, and a bucket of ice-cream. _

12:50 Me: _and the hearing thing?_

13:15 Little Bro: _I’ll keep you posted when I hear_

15:55 Little Bro: _Baelish is committed for trial. No bail, flight risk. Bywater found someone who claims he sold the gun to Baelish. Credibility shaky but the gun IDs to one reported stolen in the same neighbourhood where the guy claims he stole it so that helps. CCTV corroborates Myrs and his stories. Still no guarantee of conviction._

16:10 Me: _thx. Myrcella alright? _

16:38 Little Bro: _yes. I am absolutely forbidden to tell you she had a crying fit, but I can tell you she’s now ravening back and forth with Shireen about which costumes for the Advocate are most flattering. From what I gather, neither of them favour wimples._

16:40 Me: _should I pick her up or ?_

16:55 Little Bro: _I’ll bring her round when she’s finished the film. _

* * *

10: 12 Myrcella: _U busy?_

10:24 Me: _no, sorry, was sparring. Everything ok?_

10:28 Myrcella:_ yes fine. Can u weirchat with me after school? For rehearsal?_

10:29 Me: _absolutely._

* * *

14:23 Stannis the Mannis: _Myrcella has her heart set on a voice coach_

14:24 Me: _shit sorry my fault. I’ll pay. _

14:28 Stannis the Mannis: _you shouldn’t encourage her_

14:32 Me: _she shouldn’t do what she wants to do?_

14:49 Stannis the Mannis: _you’ve seen exactly what I’ve seen in those weirchat session. She’s terrible._

14:53 Me: _if she wants to learn, she should be able to._

15:03 Stannis the Mannis: _If she wants to spend the rest of her life doing community theatre as a hobby good for her. but you know as well as I do that she’s got no chance of a career._

15:05 Stannis the Mannis: _let her do the school play and enjoy it. everyone will clap and cheer if she remembers all her lines and doesn’t fall over. _

15:07 Stannis the Mannis: _she’s a kid, not your co-star. Let her be terrible and have fun and get a new interest next year._

16:59 Me: _Am I fucking this up?_

17:15 Stannis the Mannis: _not yet, that’s why I’m flagging you down now_

17:25 Me: _ok cool. Keep doing that. What shd I say to Myrcella?_

17:42 Stannis the Mannis: _tell her she’s doing fine, tell her she’s got years more of school to decide if she wants to take it seriously, tell her to have fun. _

17:59 Stannis the Mannis: _and if you’d tell her to not do those voice exercises you taught her after the hour of the bat, everyone else in the household would be very grateful. _

* * *

16:23 Tommen: _you shd call Mrys. _

16:24 Me: _what’s happened, what’s wrong?_

16:26 Tommen: _they had the last rehearsal today and she’s been in her bedroom crying since she got home_

16:27 Me: _ok on it_

* * *

16:36 Me: _look I take it from the fact that you won’t pick up you don’t want to talk but you need to know something_

16:36 Me: _a good dress rehearsal guarantees a terrible opening night and vice versa. It’s a thing. _

16:37 Me: _if the rehearsal was bad that’s actually good news_

16:42 Myrcella: _you’re making that up to make me feel better_

16:43 Me: _im not go on 3er and look up ‘bad dress good show’. I’ll wait. _

16:51 Myrcella: _is it really true?_

16:52 Me: _I don’t know I’ve not done much theatre but people believe it. _

16:52 Me: _which means it must happen a lot, right? _

17:02 Myrcella: _I guess_

17:04 Me: _it’s just working the kinks out. Everything will be fine tomorrow_

17:33 Myrcella: _r u still coming?_

17:38 Me: _of course. _

17:39 Me: _and Brienne. If we’re still welcome_

17:41 Myrcella: _of course u r coz. _


	165. Brienne LXIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The play's the thing, to uncover the conscience of ... professionally trained relatives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m very sorry for this second long hiatus. I won’t go into details, but things have been challenging, and finding a happy place to write our now-happily-married duo from has been difficult. For a while I couldn’t write at all, and then a good day would be one I managed to write a whole paragraph in. I’m still struggling to get more than a page down a day, but all those single sentences and paragraphs and pages have now added up to ten new chapters, so I’m going to post them, and keep plugging onwards. Once again, I’m very sorry to have left you all hanging for so long.

“The _quality_ of _mercy_ is not _strained_,” Myrcella recited. She raised her hand towards the ceiling. “It _droppeth_ as the _gentle_ rain from _heaven_.”

Jaime groaned softly, and Brienne squeezed his hand. “It’s nearly over,” she whispered.

“Kill me now,” Jaime whispered back. “If you love me, kill me before –”

“Hath not a Braavosi eyes!” the student playing the Moneylender cried, innocent of metre, and Jaime closed his eyes and slumped in his seat with an expression of a man going resigned to his execution.

Brienne managed not to laugh. She kept an expression of serious interest on her face as the student playing the Moneylender threw himself full length on the stage for the final lines of his soliloquy, despite Jaime’s muttered _never seen chewing the carpet taken quite so literally_. She rose to her feet applauding as the curtain came down and cheered particularly loudly when Myrcella took her bow.

“Seven Hells, what do I say?” Jaime asked her as they waited in the foyer for the Baratheons to join them. “Congratulations, Myrcella, you didn’t forget your lines?”

“That would be a start.” Brienne wrapped her arm around his waist. “You’re an actor. _Act_.”

Jaime leaned against her. “I can’t tell her she was good when she wasn’t.”

“She got all her lines right, tell her that. And she looked very well.” She squeezed him. “Here they come.”

“I’m _so_ glad that’s over!” Myrcella said the moment she reached them. “I was so nervous! I thought I was going to throw up the whole time!”

“You didn’t look at all nervous,” Jaime said, and perhaps it was only because Brienne knew him so well that she could tell he was concealing his relief. “And you didn’t flub a single line.”

“I am _never_ doing another play,” Myrcella said. “We’re going to dinner. Can you come?”

Jaime glanced at Stannis, who gave a small nod. “Of course we can. Is there room for us in the van, or should we meet you there?”

There was room for them in the van, although Dragonstone was so small that they were barely all seated and belted in before Stannis was parking again. The restaurant was large and cheerful with a menu that drew from all corners of the globe. In deference to Selyse’s sensibilities, Brienne ordered a vegetarian Pentoshi dish, however appealing the steak looked, and kicked Jaime under the table when he seemed about to select grilled capon.

They ate, and told Myrcella how good she’d been – Brienne was amused to note that Stannis, as well as Jaime, stuck scrupulously to statements that were objectively true – and listened to Shireen run through her school’s chances in the next three rounds of the Crownlands Junior Hockey Cup. Tommen, of course, wanted Leo’s latest news and to show Jaime that week’s pictures of Meraxes.

“What about that boy?” Brienne asked Myrcella quietly, under cover of Tommen insisting that Stannis and Selyse admire a picture of Leo sprawled on the back of Tess, who was in turn sprawled on Brienne’s legs.

Myrcella wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I still don’t know if he liked me, I mean, _liked_ me, but I decided I don’t like him, not _like_ him.”

“Mmm.” Brienne searched her own limited romantic history for something useful to say and came up blank. “Are you alright about that?”

“Actually, I’m relieved,” Myrcella said with a smile. “He’s hot, but he’s … I don’t know.” She shrugged a little. “Kind of boring. He’s the kind of person … like, if you make a joke, he’ll look at you and say _you’re so funny_. But not laugh. Like … you’re a dog riding a bicycle.”

“I don’t think I like him at all,” Brienne said drily.

Myrcella giggled. “He’s _really_ hot.”

“Who’s really hot?” Jaime asked a little sharply.

Brienne caught Myrcella’s gaze and struggled to restrain a smile. “Someone in Myrcella’s class who she finds boring.”

“I mean, he’s nice,” Myrcella said. “But, you know, after five minutes talking to him, I start hoping someone will raven me so I have a reason to end the conversation.”

Brienne gave up the battle and grinned as Jaime visibly relaxed. “I’m sure he’ll find someone equally tedious, in time,” he said.

“You need to resign yourself to the fact that she’ll end up dating someone eventually,” Brienne said later, as she and Jaime tried to get comfortable in the slightly undersized double bed in the best suite of Dragonstone’s one hotel.

“_Eventually_,” Jaime said darkly, and Brienne laughed.

“It’ll be a brave young man who risks the disapproval of Stannis Baratheon,” she said comfortingly. “Shift over a bit.”

Jaime moved slightly. “If I shift over much more I’ll be on the floor.”

“Jaime, if I have to spend all day lugging little Flatulence Sheepstealer around, at the very least I need a decent night’s sleep.” She poked him in the ribs. “Shift over.”

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, moving a little more. “Do your feet hurt? I can rub them.”

“My feet are fine, I just can’t get comfortable.” She sighed. “I’m all the wrong shape.”

“Come here.” Jaime slipped his arm under her shoulders and drew her over to lie against him, half on top of him. “Better?”

“For me,” Brienne admitted. “But are you alright? I’m even heavier than usual, these days.”

“I’m strong enough.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “Let’s go to Tarth tomorrow, instead of back to King’s Landing. Just for a day or two.”

“That would be lovely, but Victaria is coming for dinner tomorrow, remember?”

Jaime groaned. “Can you put her off?”

“I don’t think so. She’s bringing someone. A date sort of someone.”

He snorted. “I doubt it. Victaria is famously single. She’s the anti-Margaery.”

“I know, that’s why I don’t think I can put her off. If it’s serious enough that she wants to bring him …”

“Invite them both to Tarth,” Jaime suggested. “It’s only an hour by seaplane. We’ve got enough spare rooms.” He chuckled softly. “We’ve got enough spare rooms to invite the whole Tyrell clan.”

“It would be nice,” Brienne conceded. “It’s been so hot in King’s Landing.”

“And there’s always such a nice breeze off the Narrow Sea,” Jaime pointed out. “We can open all the windows, have dinner on the porch …”

“We won’t have any food in.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to drive to Morne,” Jaime countered. “Your dad says there’s a new place that’s opened up for the glampers, ready-made meals that just need heating, so you don’t even need to worry about cooking.”

Brienne raised her head and stared at him. “Jaime. Of course I’m going to cook for our guests!”

“Well, just give me a shopping list, then.” He kissed her cheek. “Brienne. I love our house in King’s Landing, but Tarth …”

“Alright,” she said after a moment. “_If_ Victaria can make it.”

“I’ll raven her now,” Jaime said, stretching to reach his phone.

“Jaime, it’s the middle of the night!”

He laughed. “Only if your evening involves a school play and an early bed-time.” He tapped the screen one-handed. “Victaria is probably still reviewing scripts or running lines. Or pretending to listen to the Queen of Thorns giving her career advice over the phone while she watches the home shopping channel with the sound down.” His phone squawked. “She’s delighted. And so is Jon.” Jaime grinned down at her. “If that’s _Jon Snow_ I’ll confess myself surprised. Anyway, she’ll raven me their flight time, and I’ll meet the seaplane.” He kissed her forehead. “So. Tarth.”

“So, Tarth,” Brienne agreed.

Accordingly, the next afternoon, Brienne found herself out on the porch in her oldest clothes, scaling the halibut her father had caught that morning, while Jaime went shopping in Morne before meeting the seaplane at the dock.

“I’d offer to help, sweetling,” her father said from the kitchen door. “But I always take too much of the skin.”

Brienne smiled. “You can help by checking on the oven and telling me if the onions have started to brown.”

“I just did, and no,” Selwyn said. He paused a moment. “Alyssane and I can head off, you know –”

“No, Dad,” Brienne said firmly.

“Well, you’ve got your movie star guests coming –”

Brienne ran the back of the knife down the side of the fish one more time to be sure. “They’re not _my movie star guests._ They’re my friend, and the man she wants me to meet.” She hoisted the halibut by the tail and turned to face him. “And I can’t possibly shuck all those oysters by myself, Dad.”

“Do you want me to fillet that for you?” 

“I absolutely do.” Brienne handed him the fish. “Baking size, not grilling.”

“Got it.” Selwyn hesitated. “And your Jaime?”

Brienne snorted. “He’s looking for nettles and apples in Morne. It’ll make him feel useful.” She dug her fists into the small of her back and stretched. “I’d better peel the carrots.”

“Alyssane’s done them. She was wondering what you wanted to do with the potatoes?”

“I thought just mashed?”

Selwyn nodded. “The one you do with parsnips?”

“That’s the one.”

“I can do the chopping, if you want to put your feet up.”

Brienne stretched again. “That would be great, Dad. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” Holding the halibut carefully away from her, Selwyn leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Go and lie down, and I’ll come and ask when I can’t work out what the next step is.”

Not without some misgivings at leaving her father unsupervised in the kitchen, Brienne made her way into the living room – still largely unfurnished, except for the enormous leather couch Jaime had set his heart on the heartbeat he’d seen it online. _Ridiculous, impractical … _but, Brienne had to admit as she stretched out, extremely comfortable. She tugged one of the throw-cushions from behind her and tucked it under her swollen stomach. _I’ll just close my eyes for a moment …_

“Hey,” Jaime said softly, and Brienne opened her eyes to see him smiling down at her.

“Hey.” Brienne heaved herself up on her elbow, blinking. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s fine,” Jaime assured her. “I can play host, and we can muddle through dinner, and you can stay here, if you’d like.”

“No.” Brienne swallowed, her mouth dry with sleep. “I want to see Vic. And Dad can’t be left alone with the potatoes.”

Jaime smiled, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “He isn’t. Victaria’s gentleman friend has taken charge of the vegetables, Victaria is slicing apples for the salad, and … well, we have some extra guests.”

“Extra guests?” Frowning, Brienne pushed herself upright.

“Well, it turned out that Victaria and Jon weren’t the only passengers on the seaplane flight. Jeor gave his niece Lyanna a weekend at Evenfall for her birthday, and I … might have invited them to dinner, too.”

“Oh, good,” Brienne said, and Jaime smiled with relief. “So long as Vic doesn’t mind.”

“She and Jeor were so deep in conversation when they got off the seaplane I had to interrupt them twice before they noticed me,” Jaime said, “So I doubt it. Your dad is teaching Lyanna to shuck oysters, and Jeor is holding forth about northern halibut to everyone.” He clasped her hand and helped her up. “I don’t know the difference between northern and southron halibut myself, but it seems to matter to Jeor and your father …”

“Oh, Gods be good.” Brienne grabbed Jaime’s arm and heaved herself to her feet. “That disagreement was the reason for the third Greyjoy Rebellion, at least according to the Blacktyde Chronicles …”

“The cause of the third Greyjoy Rebellion was probably the same as the cause of all the other Greyjoy Rebellions,” Jaime said. “Bored Greyjoys and ale. And I’m reasonably certain neither Jeor nor your father is going to come to blows over the quality of fish.”

In fact, the kitchen was remarkably peaceful. Victaria was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, cutting apples into paper-thin slices. Lyanna Mormont stood on the bench Jaime had picked out for Tyrion’s visits, wearing Brienne’s shucking gloves and listening intently to Selwyn’s explanation of the location of the abductor muscle. A tall lanky man with a shock of dark hair stirred a pot simmering on the stove while Alyssane washed nettles in the sink.

“It’s the lady of the house herself,” Jeor said with a broad grin, and the others looked up with a chorus of greetings. “How many of these walnuts do you want cracked?”

“Enough for a cup,” Brienne said. “Let me find the nutcracker.”

“No need,” Jeor said. He closed his huge fist with a crack then opened it to shower nutshell and walnut halves onto the counter. He glanced at Victaria. “Bet you can’t do _that_.”

Victaria put her apple and her knife down, and wiped her hands on her T-shirt. “How much do you bet?”

“I’ll cede my share of the oysters if you can.”

Lyanna snorted. “You’re allergic, nuncle.”

“Betrayed by my own blood!” Jeor declared theatrically, and then laughed as Victaria scooped up a couple of walnuts, arranged them on her palm, and then cracked them on her first try.

“You’re unlucky you dared me now, and not six months ago,” she said, dusting fragments of shell from her palm. “I only just learned the knack for a role I’m prepping for. Brienne, this is Jon, Jon Bulwer.” The tall man at the stove turned and gave Brienne a hesitant smile. “I promise he knows what he’s doing with your stove.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Brienne said. “And very glad you both could come.”

“Are you kidding?” Victaria picked up her knife again and turned her attention back to the apples. “Any excuse to visit Tarth.”

“It’s beautiful,” Jon agreed.

Lyanna crowed with triumph, turning to display a neatly halved oyster. “Look! I did it!”

“You certainly did,” Brienne agreed. “Do you want to do the rest, or do you want to see the armoury?”

Lyanna’s eyes widened. “The armoury?” She hesitated. “I should learn how to do this properly, though.”

“You’ve plenty of time to practice,” Selwyn told her. “Didn’t you say you were here for a weekend at Evenfall Hall? I’m just down the hill from there. You and your uncle can come for dinner and you can shuck oysters to your heart’s content.”

“_I_ want to see the armoury,” Victaria said firmly. “But as a grown-up, I have to be responsible and help in the kitchen … unless I had a really good excuse, like another guest who didn’t have that problem wanting to see it too.”

“Oh,” Lyanna said. She put down the knife she held. “Well. I should be responsible, then. And visit the armoury.”

“You should,” Jeor said, and cracked another two walnuts.


	166. Jaime LXIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime jumps to conclusions ... and lands awkwardly.

Jaime did what he could in the kitchen, which wasn’t much – he finished cutting up the apples, moved onto a small onion, and fetched and carried ingredients for the salad dressing at Alyssane’s instructions.

“Turn that pot down,” Selwyn said to Jon Bulwer. “I don’t know about the other two, but once my girl gets near swords and armour, it’ll be a while.”

“We could go and fetch them,” Jaime suggested to Jon. He grinned. “Or, you know, watch them for a while, if they’ve gone on to the training yard, which they definitely have.”

Jon gave Jaime a sideways grin that was oddly familiar, and then followed him, all slightly-uncoordinated legs and bony elbows, down the kitchen steps, across the courtyard with the barbeque it had taken three men two days to install, and through the old-fashioned wooden door to the training yard.

The training ground itself was a floor lower, sunk below ground level, surrounded by the balustraded walkway Jaime and Jon stood on. Below them, Lyanna Mormont was moving through the figures of guard slowly, Brienne nudging an elbow or a knee into better alignment every now and then. Beside them, Victaria went through the same movements, glancing over at the other two and correcting herself.

Jaime propped his elbows on the railing. “If she takes after her mother the bear cub will cut a waist-high swathe through the heavy class when she’s grown.”

“I’m not really an expert,” Jon said.

Jaime chuckled. “Imagine something slightly taller and as wide as she’s tall coming straight at you wrapped in steel and waving something pointy.”

“I’d run.”

“Wise man.” Jaime watched in silence for a moment. “Even if she doesn’t fill out she’ll do well in light armour. She’s almost got the strength already.”

“She’s got … _something_,” Jon said.

Jaime glanced at him to see a palm-sized camera in the other man’s hand and instantly realised why that sideways look had been so familiar. _I’ve seen it on more than one red carpet rope-line. _He snatched the camera away with a reach as quick as thought. “Does she know you’re a pap?” he snarled.

“I’m not!” Jon said, backing away a little.

“I’ve fucking seen you, cunt.” Jaime flicked the replay function on the camera and hit delete, and again, and then again. “I know it can’t be Baelish paying you, given his _circumstances_, so who is it? Fuck, I’ve seen some low fucking conduct from the press in my time, but _this_?”

“Jaime!” Victaria shouted. As he carried on wiping the camera’s memory, Jaime heard footsteps pounding up the stairs from the training ground and then Victaria grabbed the camera from his hands. “Jaime, listen –”

“He’s a fucking pap!”

Victaria pushed Jon behind her. “He’s not –”

“I’ve _seen_ him!”

“He’s a photographer,” Victaria said. “An artist. He does the red-carpet events to make a living, but that’s _it_. Nothing else. And can you honestly complain that someone takes a photo when you’re basically there to have photos taken?”

“He was taking photos of Brienne,” Jaime said.

“Of Vic,” Jon said. “Of _Vic_. For her portfolio, if they were any good. Or just … for a fucking album.”

“Jaime?” Brienne said breathlessly, putting her arm around his waist.

“He was taking photos,” Jaime said, starting to feel slightly foolish.

“Look, I can show you.” Jon dug his phone out of his pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and held it out to Jaime. “My weirsite. It has my exhibits, and the rest.”

Jaime took the phone and found himself looking at an extremely artistic black-and-white image of a weirwood tree with a young boy crouched by the trunk, his face pressed against the carved face of the tree. He scrolled through several more images, all equally stylish, and reached a list of gallery exhibits and then contact details for _bespoke portfolios_. “Right,” he said, feeling more than slightly foolish. He offered the phone back. “Sorry. I just –”

“We’ve had some really bad experiences with paparazzi,” Brienne said, her arm firm around him. “So, maybe … it might be good to _ask_ before you take pictures? I mean, it’s fine.” She smiled. “I’d like some great pictures of us. But just ask first?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. “I’m really not a pap. I wouldn’t sell a picture without asking, if it wasn’t a photo-op.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Jaime said. “I’ve just … you wouldn’t believe what some people will do for a photo they can sell. When I was in hospital, one of them dressed up as a nurse and tried to get a snap of me naked as my nameday. I just … shit, I’m sorry, I really am.”

“So I don’t need to hit him?” Lyanna asked, and Jaime turned to see her at the top of the stairs, tourney sword raised.

“No, honey, no-one needs to hit anyone,” Brienne said quickly. “And you should never climb stairs with an unsheathed sword. Give it to me, now.” She took the weapon. “I think all the non-pregnant adults should go back inside for beer and oysters while Lyanna and I put the equipment away.”

“Right.” Jaime gestured to the door. “The lady of the house commands.”

Jon Bulwer stuck close by Victaria’s side as they headed back into the house and then to the back porch where Alyssane and Selwyn had set out platters of oysters and glasses of beer. Jaime made sure to push one of the platters closer to Jon and worked at looked as unthreatening as he could manage. Victaria gleefully ate Jeor’s share of oysters, and when Brienne and Lyanna joined them, Jaime didn’t argue when Brienne tipped her own plate onto his.

“So are these the best?” Lyanna asked thoughtfully, gazing at the shell she held. “In the world?”

“Don’t tell anyone on Tarth I said this,” Selwyn said, leaning forward. He lowered his voice. “But no. They’re bigger than most, but I had some from Coldwater Bay, once. Tiny and sweet. It’s the water.”

Lyanna’s forehead wrinkled. “I’ve never head of Coldwater Bay oysters.”

“Too many freighters,” Jeor said. “Too much sh- … crap in the water. Nothing in the bay passes health standards these days.”

“Mmm.” Lyanna used an empty shell to scoop an oyster into her mouth. “So if the water was really clean, and cold …”

“That’s your business model,” Jaime said with a grin. “Not mass market. Bear Island, the best of the best.”

“I’ll still need to study. And there’ll be start-up costs.”

Jaime turned. “Victaria, anything on your desk that might have a role for Lyanna?”

“Actually …” Victaria scooped an oyster into her mouth and washed it down with a long swallow of beer. “I was going to talk to you both. I’ve got a script in my in-tray from Alys.”

“Karstark?” Jaime asked.

Victaria nodded. “It’s called _The Old Kingsguard._ Basically, it’s that the Kingsguard is based on a ancient order of immortal warriors, and the movie is about _them_, but mostly set today.” She shrugged a little. “Production is at least a year away. Arthur Dayne has signed on, provisionally, to play Duncan the Tall.” She paused. “Gay Duncan the Tall.”

Jaime guffawed. “Seven Hells, and I thought _Oathkeeper_ got the weirnet grumkins upset.”

Victaria glanced at him. “You think it’s terrible?”

“Gods be good, I think it’s wonderful. I mean, all we know about him was that he was a Kingsguard – sworn to celibacy doesn’t mean only sworn off women, does it? And it’s about time Arthur got the chance to bring all of himself to a role. Just make sure you hire someone to deal with _all_ your social media before it leaks.”

“Brienne?” Victaria raised her glass and studied it. “What do you think? With your family connection?”

Brienne snorted. “That’s all Tyrion’s marketing idea,” she said.

“And if it wasn’t?”

Brienne shrugged. “There’s no more evidence that Duncan the Tall was straight than that he was bisexual. Or that he was gay and experimented a bit when he was young. Tyrion’s branding for Evenfall could be right and Ser Duncan could have a passionate relationship with another knight at the same time.”

“So you wouldn’t object to playing the Blue Knight?” Victaria asked.

Brienne stared at her. “Me? The Blue Knight? What?”

“Just a couple of scenes – flashbacks to fill in the back story.”

“And who do you play?” Jaime asked.

“Visenya Targaryen.” Victaria ran her fingers through her hair. “With a wig, probably.”

“Nice,” Jaime said approvingly. “Do you get a dragon?”

“Only in the flashbacks.” Victaria sounded a little regretful.

“Who else is signed on? You’ll need seven all up, right?”

Victaria nodded. “Asha and Garlan are both in, pending availability. What do you think of Edmure Tully?”

Jaime shrugged. “Haven’t worked with him personally, but he always seems to turn in a solid performance whoever directs him. He did four full years on _Duskendale High_ when he was starting out, though, and your character doesn’t survive four seasons on a soap if you’re an asshole on set. Who else?”

“Sandor Clegane.”

“He’s lovely,” Brienne said immediately. “I mean, he’s not exactly chatty, but he works hard and he’s an absolutely professional. Did you see _Gravedigger_?”

Victaria nodded. “That’s what made me think of him. So I just need one more, another woman.”

“Ask Catelyn Stark to cast her,” Jaime suggested. “She’s got the best book in the business.” He sipped his beer. “Who’s directing? The Queen of Thorns?”

“No, Grandmama is determined to stay retired this time.” Victaria stacked the oyster shells on her plate carefully. “She did suggest someone, though. You.”

Jaime snorted. “I’m flattered, but trailing behind Olenna on one movie set hardly qualifies me. Get Addam Marbrand.”

“He’s agreed to be first AD. _If_ you direct.”

Jaime shook his head. “Vic, I wouldn’t know the first thing about where to start. I know you think it’s just about telling actors what they already know, _I_ thought that before _Oathkeeper_, but it’s a lot more than that. It’s framing shots, and angles, and cutting, and effects, and knowing what something is going to look like when the CGI is in before anyone’s even drawn the first frame of it …”

“You’ve got a year to learn, though,” Brienne said. She reached out and took his hand, running her thumb over his two weak fingers. “There’s probably a bunch of courses you can do over the weirnet, and it’s not like you don’t have …” She glanced at Victaria. “Someone to ask, over the rest of the year.” She squeezed his hand. “And you _know_ all that stuff already, anyway. Anyone who’s watched a film with you knows you know all that stuff, camera angles and shot sequences and framing and staging.” She smiled at him. “You never shut up about it.”

“Are you doing it through Highgarden Productions?” Jaime asked Victaria.

She nodded. “We need the facilities, apart from anything else. Marge is producing.”

Jaime grinned. “She’ll be amazing at it.”

Victaria smiled back at him. “Yes. Grandmama’s organisational gene skipped dad and landed on Margaery undiluted. Say you’ll do it, Jaime. The fight scenes are the heart of this film and we _both_ know that the ones in _Oathkeeper_ were nine-tenths you. Grandmama admits it. You’ve an eye for it, you _know_ how it’s supposed to look.”

“What about Guyard Morrigen? The action sequences in _Mad Mors_ were the gold standard.”

“He’s working on the script for a new _Mad Mors_ film. And even if he wasn’t, he’s great with guns and chase sequences, but Alys and I want _The Old Kingsguard_ to have swordfights.” Victaria put the last shell carefully on the top of her tower. “I want you to do it. Alys wants you to do it. And you know that _you_ want to do it.”

“I do,” Jaime admitted. “I’m not sure that I want to do it more than I don’t want to fuck it up for you, though.”

“And if Grandmama was bored enough to need something to occupy herself with, a couple of times a week …?”

“Then that sounds much more reasonable,” Jaime said immediately. _Olenna will know exactly what I ought to be doing and will tell me in very small words._

“Well, then.” Victaria raised her empty glass. “To _The Old Kingsguard_. And all who sail in her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonically, Victaria is a distant cousin, not a sibling of Garlan, Willas and Margaery. I can no longer remember if I knew that and changed it deliberately or not, so let's pretend that I totally knew that and changed it deliberately.


	167. Brienne LXIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insomnia ...

Brienne rolled over to fling her arm around Jaime and found her face full of fur.

She raised her head. The moonlight streaming through the bedroom window frosted Tessarion’s ears and shimmered on her back. “Well, hello,” Brienne said. “Keeping Jaime’s side of the bed warm for him, are you?” Tess thumped her tail, and then licked Brienne’s cheek. “And where is he? Where’s Jaime, girl?”

Tess jumped off the bed, pattered to the door, and stopped, waiting.

“Clever girl.” It took Brienne a little longer to heave herself to her feet. She shrugged into her robe and followed Tess out the door and down the stairs.

“I know I can’t learn it in a year.” Jaime’s voice came from the kitchen. “But with a good AD and the Queen of Thorns looking over my shoulder …”

Brienne paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Jaime stood, hip propped against the kitchen counter, phone held between his ear and his shoulder as he unloaded glasses from the dishwasher. Tess trotted over to him and sat down at his feet.

“Look, I just want to know if you think I can learn to make a decent fist of it.” Jaime leaned down to rub Tess’s ears. “I don’t expect to win any awards, but I’d prefer not to win a Golden Goose Egg. Will you help me?” 

Brienne cleared her throat a little, and smiled at him when he looked up. _Tea?_ she mouthed, and when Jaime nodded she went to the stove and picked up the kettle.

“Just … anything you can teach me. When you have time. Yes. Thanks. _Thanks_, Stannis. And I’m sorry to call so late.” Jaime lowered his phone and tapped the screen. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Brienne filled the kettle and set it on the heat. “I found myself spooning a direwolf. Tess is many things, but an adequate replacement for my husband she is not.”

“I just …” He shrugged. “I woke up and started thinking about all the things I could fuck up on Victaria’s movie, and …”

Brienne scooped dried herbs into the teapot. “And Stannis is going to give you tips?”

He grinned. “Yes, he says. Between him and Olenna, I might manage to stay on track.”

“Of course you will.” The kettle whistled and Brienne poured boiling water into the teapot. “Jaime. Olenna wouldn’t have suggested you if she thought you’d ruin Victaria’s film.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Not that I don’t appreciate her confidence, and yours for that matter, but people study film-making for years to get even slightly-not-terrible.”

“Mmm.” Brienne hooked two mugs down from the shelf and poured tea for them both. “You mean, watching a huge number of films and paying really close attention to everything about them and reading everything that’s ever been written about them and watching them again? That sort of study?”

Jaime took the mug she offered him. “Yeah.”

“Which is pretty much your waking life, when you aren’t working,” Brienne pointed out.

“Well, and there’s practice. Making short films, finding out what your mistakes are.”

“You’ve got a year.” Brienne blew on her tea, and then sipped it. “Use it to make some. Show them to Stannis, and Olenna, and Addam, and anyone else whose opinion you think is worthwhile.”

“I’m going to be shooting double-oh-three for most of it,” Jaime turned the mug in his hands. “And, you know … learning how to be a not-altogether terrible father.”

Brienne shrugged. “How long can it take to make a short film?”

He grinned. “A lot longer than you’d think, wench. Remember what Chayle Dickon said. _I wrote a novel because I didn’t have time to write a short story._”

“Pay someone else to spend a lot of time writing it,” Brienne suggested. “Willas, or Alys or … I don’t know, there have to be plenty of screenwriters who’d love a job. Do another Essosi ad campaign or three to pay for it.” She sipped her tea. “Or I will. Ask Joy if there’s any maternity active-wear companies that would pay for a photo-shoot of the Blue Knight doing some gentle pregnancy-appropriate stretching.”

Jaime put his mug down on the counter and came over to wrap his arms around her. “I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

Brienne rubbed her cheek against his. “I’m offering. Let me help. Besides.” She kissed him. “Nothing feels all that scary now I’ve walked an actual red carpet at an actual movie premier and gotten cloaked in front of hundreds of people.” She kissed him again. “What’s trying to reach past little Flatulence to touch my knees in front of a camera crew compared to that?”  
  



	168. Brienne LXV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in the best of times, some issues crop up ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warning for (brief) reference to past child (physical) abuse (milder than what’s in canon), brief reference to past child Jaime and Cersei consistent with canon.

“Are there other tests I can have?” Brienne asked Maester Edyth.

The maester paused, fiddling with the rings strung on a chain around her neck. “There _are_, yes, but there aren’t any tests you _need._ I know it can be nerve-wracking, the first time especially, but –”

Brienne shook her head. “I’m fine. My husband … look, confidentially covers him, too, doesn’t it?” Edyth nodded. “His mother died of some complication of childbirth, I don’t know exactly what, but she bled to death giving birth to his younger brother. So I want to be able to tell him that I’ve had absolutely every test there is and nothing’s wrong.”

“Ah. Well, I can order an imaging scan, which I’d usually want if your ultrasounds were showing some sort of problem. I can do the full range of genetic tests, which I wouldn’t normally do unless you or your partner had a family history. But the biggest risk for uncontrolled bleeding during labour is a problem with the placenta, where it’s placed or if it’s wrongly attached, and I’d absolutely see that on your ultrasounds, probably at this point but definitely as your due date gets closer.”

“They didn’t for Jaime’s mother,” Brienne pointed out. “If that’s what it was.”

“Without seeing her medical records, I can’t say. But I _can_ say that scans have improved quite a lot in recent decades, and we’ve gotten a lot better at spotting some of the more subtle signs of problems, and you don’t have risk factors for the rarer and more difficult to diagnose complications any way. But let’s order the tests, if you’re willing to put up with them, and then I can write you an official letter on Aegon Targaryen Hospital letterhead saying that everything is entirely fine.”

“Thank you,” Brienne said. “I’ll pay for them, of course. Since they’re not necessary.”

Maester Edyth tapped keys on her computer, peering at the screen. “They can fit you in for the scan tomorrow at three. And I can take your blood for the genetic tests now, if you don’t mind being stabbed by someone out of practice, or send you downstairs to the pathology lab.”

Brienne started rolling up her sleeve. “I’d rather be stabbed by someone out of practice than an expert.”

Edyth gave her a startled glance, and then smiled. “Oh, of course. I’d forgotten, but you’re a tourney fighter, aren’t you?”

Brienne offered her arm. “The nose didn’t give it away?”

The maester chuckled, fetching a tray and arranging vials on it. “I did my emergency room rotation, once upon a time. There are many, _many_ ways to break a nose. How are you coping with having to cut down on your training?”

“It’s harder now I’m not so tired,” Brienne admitted. “I mean, I can still jog, and I’ve found a pool, but I miss lifting, _really_ lifting, and I miss sparring.”

“There are safe strength exercises you can do.” Edyth slipped the pressure tie around Brienne’s arm and tightened it. “Small pinch now.”

Brienne took a deep breath and blew it out as the maester slipped the needle home and loosened the tie with the other hand. “I usually bench more than my weight.”

Edyth snorted slightly, changing the vial. “Yes, probably not recommended. But you’re still keeping it up at a more moderate level, I hope?” Brienne nodded, and the maester smiled. “Good. Childbed is a battle as fierce as any tourney square. You’ll want to be fit. There.” She withdrew the needle from Brienne’s arm and pressed a square of cotton against the place. “Thank you for not complaining about my rusty skills, although given you risk perforation recreationally, I suppose you have a fairly high risk-tolerance.”

“The swords are fairly blunt.” Brienne took the cotton, holding it against the needle-mark, freeing the maester to label the vials. “Broken bones are the most common injury.”

Edyth wrote neatly on the labels. “I would have thought concussion.”

Brienne shook her head. “It’s usually an accident. Head strikes are illegal. They happen, but usually by accident. Or cheating.”

“And how did you break your nose, then?”

Brienne lifted the cotton, checking to see if the bleeding had stopped. “Once, falling over my own feet in training when I was just starting. Once, in the square, when I mistimed a jump over Lyonel Storm’s low-strike and fell face-first on the edge of my shield.”

“Here.” Edyth put a bandage neatly over the puncture mark. “Well, as much as I’d like to talk you out of putting yourself in the way of edged weapons in the future, blunt or otherwise, it’s probably only about as dangerous as skiing. But keep paying attention to your body while you’re carrying. If you’re tired, cut back. If you have pain, stop. It’s not just about the babe – your ligaments loosen, your centre of gravity changes, you can hurt yourself and not realise it.”

“Got it,” Brienne snapped. She took a breath, and softened it with a smile. “Sorry. It’s just frustrating.”

She was still irrationally prickly when she collected Myrcella from the waiting room. Myrcella was still pouting a little over Brienne’s firm refusal to let her into the maester’s office during her appointment, but she was mollified when the babe started kicking when they were on the way down in the elevator and Brienne held Myrcella’s hand in the right place to feel the faint movements.

“I’m going to have _so_ many children,” Myrcella confided to Brienne as they got into the back seat of the car Pod pulled up to the entrance of the Aegon Targaryen Hospital. “And I’m going to be a great mama to _all_ of them.”

“I see,” Brienne said, and made a mental note to mention to Selyse that Myrcella could possibly use _the talk_ about moon pills and moon tea fairly soon.

Jaime met them at the door when they got home. “Wench,” he said, kissing her cheek in deference to Myrcella’s presence. “We have unexpected visitors.”

“Good or bad?”

Jaime grinned. “Depends on perspective. I’ve just spent an hour with _both_ Aunt Genna _and_ Catelyn Stark dissecting my failures as a husband.”

“Catelyn’s here?” Brienne said, and then, “How _dare _she?”

Myrcella pushed past them. “Grandaunt Genna!”

Jaime caught Brienne’s hands. “I’m exaggerating. Don’t fight with your friend on my behalf.”

“I’ll fight with who I like,” Brienne snapped at him, yanked her hands free, and stormed into the house. 

Genna and Catelyn were in the kitchen, Genna with her arms around Myrcella. _Alright_. Brienne wouldn’t tell Genna where to go while Myrcella was there, so she couldn’t tell Catelyn, either. Instead, she strode over to the counter and filled the kettle. “Tea?”

“Oh, let me make it,” Catelyn said quickly. “You sit down.”

“I’m still quite able to lift a kettle,” Brienne said, setting it on the stove with a thump.

Catelyn and Genna exchanged a glance. “Why don’t you show me your room here, Myrc?” Genna said. “And all the new clothes my nephew has apparently been buying you. Jaime, you come too. You’ll want to take notes while I explain what a young girl _actually_ needs.”

“It’s not _that_ many,” Myrcella said, leading the way from the kitchen. “Just a few dresses, and some …” Her voice faded as all three went up the stairs.

Brienne scooped tea into the teapot as the kettle shrilled and poured the water after it – too quickly, splashing the counter as well. She swore and grabbed a cloth from the sink.

“One of _those_ days, I take it,” Catelyn said gently.

Brienne gave her a sidelong look. “What days?”

“When everything feels wrong for no real reason and what you really want to do is punch something. Or someone.”

Brienne turned, hands on her hips. “If you’re about to say one word about _hormones_ –”

“Gods be good, no,” Catelyn said. “You don’t need hormones to be miserable and angry that your body has been effectively co-opted to be a life-support system for someone you don’t even know yet. And to be expected to be happy about it. And to know that it’s just going to keep going on for months yet, and there’s more things you’re going to have to stop doing, and meanwhile your bloody infuriating husband gets to just blithely carry on, perhaps making you the occasional cup of tea or rubbing your feet when they hurt and then going on with his perfectly normal life. And he doesn’t know how you feel and you don’t want to tell him in case he thinks you’re going to be a bad mother, and even if he _did_ know there’s really nothing he can do except the impossible, which is carry the babe _for_ you. One of _those_ days.”

Brienne’s eyes prickled with tears, and she nodded.

“Come and sit down on the couch for a bit, and we’ll drink our tea, and you can have a cry. That will help a bit, at least.” 

They sat on the couch on the living room, and Brienne _did_ shed a few tears while Catelyn rubbed her shoulders and made soothing noises. “I’m sorry,” Brienne said at last, wiping her eyes with her thumbs. “I shouldn’t be _like_ this, I _want_ this babe. It’s just …” She shrugged. “I always knew I didn’t have the right sort of body, but I could always make it do what I wanted to do. I could be strong, and fit, and fast, even if I wasn’t much to look at. And now …” She touched the swell of her stomach. “And it’s only going to get worse. I want the babe, but I _hate_ carrying it. Which is awful, isn’t it?”

“It’s perfectly normal,” Catelyn said. “You know, all those interviews that actresses give when they’re expecting a babe about how wonderful it is and how thrilling and how they’ve never been so happy? At least half of them are lying through their teeth. Some of them are sick and exhausted, some of them feel exactly as you do about their body changing without their permission, some of them just threw a full basket of laundry at their husband’s head because he offered to _help_ with the chores.” Brienne surprised herself with a chuckle. “I had a truly awful time with Robb, and it was made worse by the fact that Lyanna was having that disastrous affair, and Ned was trying to deal with _that_. After that it was easier, because I knew what to expect, because Ned wasn’t distracted. But I hated the whole thing, and I hated that I hated it, and I felt guilty and ashamed that I hated it. And at least part of the time I hated Ned, a little, because he didn’t have to go through any of it and he still got to be a parent, while _I_ was the one doing all the work.”

“I don’t hate Jaime,” Brienne said quickly. “I just … wish …” She shrugged. “I don’t know. That it was different. That I _felt_ different.”

“Tell him,” Catelyn suggested. “Look, imagine you had a job, a contract for nine months, doing something that was really important and a huge benefit to both of you, but was boring and uncomfortable and made you miserable a lot of the time. You’d tell him that, wouldn’t you? And not try to pretend you loved every minute of it.” Brienne nodded. “So tell him about this. He can probably tell, you know.”

Loud footsteps on the stairs announced the return of the others. “I’m taking Myrcella shopping,” Genna announced. “For things she _really_ needs.”

“I’ll come with you,” Catelyn said. She hugged Brienne before she stood up. “And then I have dinner with Robb and Jeyne, so I’ll say goodbye to you both now.” She gave Jaime a brief hug as well. “Raven or call me if you need anything, the both of you.”

“You’ve been crying,” Jaime said quietly once the front door had closed on the other three. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

“A hug?” Brienne said.

“Easy.” He crossed the room and dropped onto the couch next to her, gathering her in his arms. “Was there something wrong, at the maester’s?”

“No,” Brienne reassured him quickly. “Everything is perfectly fine. I talked her into giving me some more tests, that she doesn’t think I need, just to be extra sure.” She took a deep breath. “It’s just … Jaime, I’m really not enjoying carrying a babe.”

“I doubt I’d much like it, either,” Jaime said, as if that was a perfectly normal thing for her to have said. “Is that what’s upset you?” Brienne nodded. “Foolish wench.” He kissed her temple. “Learning to spar with my left hand was an agony of frustration, but at least I _could_ spar, albeit very badly. And when I reached screaming point, I could go run myself to absolute exhaustion. And here’s you stuck with a gentle jog and some stretching.”

“Yes,” Brienne said. “And there’s three more months of it. And I’m _already_ sick of it.”

“Would you feel better if we were on Tarth?”

Brienne sighed. “I don’t know. And we can’t, anyway. Gerion’s documentary isn’t nearly finished, and I’ve got that guest appearance on _Fishing With Brynden_ next week and then two _Cooking with the Blue Knight_ segments.”

He kissed her. “We can tell them all to go to the Stranger, and run away to Tarth.”

“We _can’t_, Jaime.” The fact that he _would_, though, if she said she wanted to, made Brienne feel a bit better. “For the weekend, maybe.”

He pulled out his phone, his other arm snug around her shoulders. “I’ll get Peck to make the arrangements. What do you want to do tonight? Tyrion invited us all to dinner, but I can beg off for us.”

“Could you? I don’t feel very sociable.”

He tapped at his phone. “Both done. Eat out or eat in? _Sunspear Vice_? Or a movie, I’ve got a screening copy of _Electrum Blonde_, although the special effects aren’t entirely finished.”

“Oh, I’d like to see that, Victaria told me about it.”

“Alright, Pentoshi again? That tomato thing you like?” 

Brienne shook her head. “Boar ribs. With rice.”

“Alright, and I’ll get the corn and zucchini thingy –” Brienne held up two fingers and Jaime chuckled. “And one for you, as well. There, done.” He put his arm back around her. “What else can I do?”

“Tell me that hating this doesn’t mean I’ll be a terrible mother.”

“Wench.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “No-one who’s ever seen you with kids could think that. But if you’re really worried you should talk to your maester about it, if you haven’t.”

Brienne shook her head and pressed her face to his shoulder. “I didn’t want _her_ to think I was going to be a terrible mother.”

“Well, I’ve been talking to Luwin about how I’m afraid I’ll be a terrible _father_, given my own father’s very bad example,” Jaime said. “And don’t say _Tyrion_, because I wasn’t his father, I was his big brother. I want to be a proper dad, like your dad is, and I’m scared stiff I won’t have a clue how. But why don’t you come in with me this Smith’s Day?” He grinned down at her. “We can both tell him all about our insecurity and then he can tell you for the first time and me for about the eighteenth that it’s perfectly normal for new parents.”

Brienne gave a huff of laughter. “Poor Maester Luwin. Did you talk to him about your mother, too?”

Jaime’s hand on her hair stilled for a moment. “Yes,” he said, and paused. “He said – wench, I’m not sure you want me to get into this, if you’re having a bad day already.”

Brienne sat up a little so she could see his face properly. His mouth was tight, his eyes shadowed. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

He shrugged a little. “It’s not that, it’s … there’s some bad stuff there, is all.”

She raised her hand and cupped his cheek. “I’m strong enough.”

“You are,” he agreed with the trace of a smile, the strain in his face easing a little. “It’s just … I had a long talk with Tyrion. And Aunt Genna. There were things … other things I don’t remember. Or didn’t, until they told me and I really tried to. Other things, later, stuff that happened on the _Kingslayer_ set, that Tyrion has security footage of, that I can’t bring clear at all. Luwin says … that when something happens, especially to a kid, that … Seven Hells, I can’t explain it like he does. But if you can’t keep going as you are, knowing about it, you can just teach yourself not to learn about it. Not to _think_ about it. You let those memories go, you don’t bring them up, and you forget you even have them. Does that make sense?”

Brienne nodded. “I think so.”

He looked relieved. “After my mother died, I used to look forward so much to Cersei coming to stay. I was so lonely. I loved Tyrion, of course I did, and he loved me, but he was a little babe, and Cersei was … she was fun, and she loved me. Tyrion says that she used to hurt him, pinch him, hit him, I wouldn’t let her if I was there but he was terrified she’d catch him alone. And I don’t … I sort of remember it a bit, but I _didn’t_, and I never stopped her coming over, I never told Aunt Genna.” He dropped his gaze. “I wasn’t a very good big brother to him. Cersei … ” He shrugged. “I can’t put the blame on her, for that, for me letting Tyrion down.”

“Well, but you can put the blame on her for tormenting an innocent little boy,” Brienne pointed out. “You didn’t really have anyone else, back then, did you, except Tyrion and Cersei? No wonder you needed to find a way to be able to keep her in your life.”

“I have to admit, the sex played a part in that too,” Jaime said, not meeting her eyes.

“And what does Luwin say about that?”

“That I should think about why one of the things I don’t remember is how it all started.” Jaime’s voice was very soft.

_Finally, thank the Seven_. Brienne was careful not to let her thoughts show on her face. She smoothed his hair back from his face. “Maybe you should,” she said calmly. “From what you’ve told me, you were very, very young.”

He looked up. “So was she. We’re exactly the same age.” He frowned. “When you were in the Cloaks … what would you have done?”

“Called the Social Septas,” Brienne said. “And they would have ordered for you both to be seen by maesters who specialised in …” She hesitated.

“Abuse,” Jaime whispered. “Brienne. What if I can’t remember because I forced her?”

_Oh, Jaime. _“I think,” she said carefully, “from what I’ve seen over the years, if you were the kind of child who’d do that, you’d be the kind of man who would. And you’re not.”

“I might be.”

“I direct your attention to the entire history of our relationship,” Brienne said, and Jaime gave a whimper of a laugh. She ran her hand over his hair and cupped the back of his neck, drawing him down to rest against her shoulder. “Jaime. You’re a good decent man, and I would bet this house and the one on Tarth that you were a good decent boy.”

He leaned into her and wrapped his arms around her. “Wench. I’m sorry. You hardly caught yourself a prize.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said serenely, and he laughed a little. “Do you want to go upstairs and lie down for a little while, until the children get home? My back hurts a bit, and I could use a hug.”

“I’d like that,” Jaime said. “Let’s do that.”

So they did.


	169. Jaime LXIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne appease the tabloid nonsense

Jaime found Brienne’s hand and squeezed it. “Ready, wench?”

She nodded. “I really want to go home as soon as we can, though.”

“Absolutely.” He kissed her cheek. “We run the gauntlet of the paps, we spend the minimum amount of time eating with Stannis in full view of the windows, and then we escape through the kitchen and Peck picks us up in the alley. We’ll be home ten minutes after that.” He grinned at her. “And I have the latest season of _Sunspear Vice_, with the cast commentaries and deleted scenes extras.”

“How did you get it so early?”

Jaime got out of the car, waved at the paparazzi, and went around the back to open the door for Brienne. “Arianne. From Arys.”

She took his hands and let him pull her to her feet. “You’re warming to him. I think that’s the first time you’ve used his name.”

“Well, he went out of his way for my wife, I have to be nice about him for at least a day.” Jaime made sure she had her balance, and then put his arm around her waist. “Smile, wave, walk.”

“I know the drill.” Brienne smiled, and waved, and swept past the cameras without a word. “Why are there so many here?”

“The news that Stannis is directing the next double-oh-three has been strategically leaked, as is the fact that he’s come to King’s Landing to have dinner with me,” Jaime said as the doors opened and then closed behind them, cutting off the shouted questions. “The fevered speculation will be good for at least two days of coverage, and then Dragon Stone Productions will reluctantly confirm that I’ve signed. The fact that the tabloids got the story on their own means they’ll splash it big.”

Brienne sighed as they made their way to the table where Stannis waited. “It all seems like such nonsense.”

Jaime kissed her cheek before he drew her chair out for her. “Feed the beast, wench.”

Stannis half-rose from his chair, and subsided as Brienne sat. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. Lamb salad, shrimp and persimmon soup – it’s a low-mercury seafood – and buttered turnips.” He glanced at Jaime. “I thought about our shooting schedule, and I ordered you mixed vegetables with a light sauce.”

Jaime _felt_ Brienne start to bristle at the beginning of the sentence, and then relax. “Oh,” she said. “That all sounds lovely.”

Stannis gave one of his small smiles. “When she was carrying Shireen was the only time Selyse abandoned her principles when it came to food. I would have ordered you beef, but the only decent way they do steak here is rare.” He raised his hand, drawing the attention of the waiter. “And I’m sure you’re desperate to be out of here. How long do you have, now?”

“Two months,” Brienne said. “It feels like forever, and way too soon, at the same time.”

“Mmm.” Their meals were delivered with commendable speed. “That’s to get you used to parenthood, I think. That’s what it’s like. One minute you’re wondering if they’re ever going to stop waking you up in the hour of the wolf, and the next you’re wondering how they’re suddenly old enough to be crying over boys at school.”

“Oh, no,” Brienne said. “Shireen’s heartbroken?”

Stannis smiled again. “She’ll live. He’s a patch-faced fool. I’m just glad he doesn’t have the sense to like her, or I’d have to step in.” He started cutting up his steak as Jaime poked resignedly at his mixed vegetables. “We’ll be doing the studio shoots at Rosby, it’s a long commute from King’s Landing but it’s doable if you want to be at home.”

_No_, Jaime thought, at the idea of an extra three hours away from Brienne each day, at being an hour and a half away if she called and said _my waters broke, _but he only nodded. “We’ll talk about it, and let you know.”

“This soup is amazing,” Brienne said, her spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl. “If I came to Rosby, would it be a trailer or a suite or an apartment?”

“Wench, we can just buy a house,” Jaime said. “Even if neither of us ever shoot there again, we can lease it out by the month and cover the cost.”

“Jaime,” Brienne said, and sighed.

He grinned at her. “Two houses, one for us, one for Peck and Pia and Pod and Garrett and Lewys and Joy …”

“Jaime!”

“Three, in case we have visitors, like if your father wants to come and stay.”

Stannis gave his small cough of a laugh. “Given it’s a double-oh-three movie, half the town has been booked out for accommodation. I’m fairly sure you can be accommodated.” He forked up a piece of steak and chewed methodically. “I wanted to ask you about the crew on _Oathkeeper_. I usually manage my own productions, but that’s obviously not going to work with this. How was Davos Seaworth to work with?”

“Good,” Jaime said.

“Wonderful,” Brienne said at the same moment. “He’s just lovely.”

“And if you need an AD, Addam Marbrand is very conscientious,” Jaime said.

Stannis nodded. “I’ll bear that in mind. Sandor Clegane did your stunts?”

“He did, although he’s good in front of the camera as well.” Jaime chased a last sad slice of squash around his plate. “I recommend _Gravedigger_, if you haven’t seen it.”

“Mm.” Stannis ate another piece of steak. “I’m in talks to cast Asha Greyjoy as double-oh-three’s love interest and Victaria Tyrell as the enemy agent.”

Jaime eyed the lamb salad Brienne was working her way through. “I’d reverse that.”

“You get to kiss both of them, either way.”

Jaime grinned at him. “I’m familiar with the franchise. I mean, I’m presuming the love interest has less screen time, so I’d think you’d want the stronger actor in that role to make sure the audience invests. And Asha can chew scenery as if it’s a recommended dietary supplement.”

Stannis narrowed his eyes. “Victaria’s too big to take a supporting role.”

“Give her a big action scene.” Jaime shrugged. “I presume there’s about eight in the script. Give her one of the biggest ones. You know she can do it herself. Give her an action sequence that will go down in history, and I guarantee she’ll sign on.” He leaned over toward Brienne. “Do you want _all_ of that?”

“Yes,” Brienne said heartlessly. 

Stannis watched them with a flicker of amusement. “I’m recasting all the recurring roles as well. The Hand, the Master of Whispers … any ideas?”

“Elia Martell,” Brienne said immediately. “As the Hand.”

“It’s a male role,” Stannis pointed out.

“Does it have to be?” Brienne countered. “It’s an office, right? Why can’t a woman hold it? She’s funny, and she’s moving, and she was the biggest star in the Seven Kingdoms. And from what I’ve seen of the movies, she wouldn’t have many scenes, and you could probably do them in Dorne, if she wanted.”

“And the Master of Whispers?” Stannis asked. “Sarella Sand, the Mistress of Whispers?”

“No,” Jaime said, seeing it clear as day. “Alys Karstark. Playing it comic, while everyone plays it straight. Use the character to give the audience a break from the tension.”

Stannis glared at his steak for a moment. “They’ll burn me alive for changing the gender of _two_ legacy characters.”

Jaime grinned at him. “Do you want to see the box office figures for _Mad Mors Demon Road_ and for _Oathkeeper_? Who’s going to burn you alive, because it won’t be the franchise owners spraining their backs as they carry their profits to the banks.” He stole a slice of lamb from Brienne’s plate. “I mean, if you _really_ want to coin dragons, you should cast Victaria as double-oh-three and _me_ as the love interest.”

“A bit braver than I think they’re willing to be,” Stannis said dryly. “I know _Maester Who_ has gone that way, but …” He shrugged. “Maybe next time it will be _Hill, Joy Hill_ instead of _Hill, Jay Hill_. But for now …”

Jaime speared one of Brienne’s turnips and ate it. “For now, it’s me, and I can’t complain. When’s wardrobe?”

“First fitting next week.” Stannis finished his steak with methodical bites. “They’ll come to you, your assistant has the details.” He gave one of his small smiles. “Is there anything else, or can we finish this mummer’s farce?”

Jaime grinned at him. “Brienne,” he said. “Would you like me to escort you to the ladies’ privy?”

The ladies’ privy was down the same hallway as the kitchen, and the kitchen door was being held open for them by one of the serving staff. “The shrimp soup was wonderful,” Brienne said in the general direction of the kitchen hands as they hurried through. “Really, I’d love the recipe –” And then they were through the kitchen and in the alley, climbing into the back of the SUV.

“Home, Peck, and don’t spare the horses,” Jaime said. 


	170. Brienne LXVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shooting starts ...

“There.” The wardrobe assistant stepped back and studied Jaime with her head cocked to one side. “Perfect. Just let me get a shot for continuity.” She raised her phone and tapped the screen. “There. Untitled double-oh-three project, day one, shot one, act two, scene nineteen.”

Jaime turned away from her to face Brienne. “What do you think, wench?”

“You look very handsome.” Brienne adjusted Jaime’s bowtie minutely. “You look like the perfect Jay Hill.” It was only the truth. Jaqen had cut his hair a little, not so short that Brienne couldn’t still run her fingers through it, but a more modern style than his usual age-of-ice-and-fire look. His beard was neatly trimmed, barely past designer stubble. He’d worked like a demon in the gym with Sandor over the past weeks, foregoing fries and burgers in favour of vegetables and healthy shakes that turned Brienne’s stomach to even smell, and as a result he was lean and muscled in his tailored tuxedo.

Jaime leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers. “I’m not entirely sure I know what I’m doing,” he confessed. “I mean, _everyone’s_ played him. Even Barry and Arthur, at one time or another. Who did it right? Is he a thug with a veneer of sophistication? Is he a working professional who puts it all on as an act?”

Brienne cupped his face and kissed him. “Maybe he’s a good man, and the rest is an act,” she said. “Maybe he’s Jaime Lannister, but his job requires him to be the Kingslayer.”

“Wench.” He wrapped his arms around her. “No-one will buy it –”

“They will exactly buy it,” Brienne said firmly. “Why did Jay Hill get into the intelligence service in the first place? Why would anyone?”

“Because he was an idealist,” Jaime said slowly. “Because he wanted to serve the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And he didn’t just forget that.” Brienne rubbed his back. “He never forgot that. Everything _else_ is an act.”

“Mmm.” Jaime leaned against her. “I can play that. I can _play_ that.”

“I know.” Brienne took hold of his shoulders and set him at arm’s length. “So go do it.”

He grinned, sharp and bright and beautiful, leaned up to kiss her, and clattered down the wardrobe trailer stairs to where Jeyne Poole was waiting to take him to the set.

Brienne waddled down the steps somewhat more slowly, clambered into the back seat of the waiting SUV, and let Pia drive her back to the townhouse the production had rented for her and Jaime. She climbed the stairs, having to pause to catch her breath twice, and and dropped onto the couch, hands linked over her swollen belly. The babe kicked, so she picked up her phone and started the stopwatch app. Counting ten more kicks filled twenty minutes, and then the day stretched out empty before her again. She could go for the moderate-paced walk that was all she could manage without becoming breathless, but that would leave her with nothing to do in the afternoon. She could have a bath, but then she’d have to risk having to stay in it until Jaime came home and could help her heave herself out. Weirflix was unappealing without Jaime’s running commentary on whatever they were watching and none of the books she’d packed seemed particularly interesting today.

A knock on the door made her heave herself to her feet. “One moment,” she called, navigating the stairs carefully.

“Take your time,” Bronn’s familiar drawl replied. “I’m guessing you’ve reached the beached whale stage.”

Brienne made it to the bottom without incident, and opened the door. “I’d take offence, but it’s exactly what I call it myself.”

He grinned up at her, and then bowed with a flourish. “Milady, your carriage awaits.”

Brienne looked past him to see a black SUV parked in the narrow cobbled street. “Why?”

“I have been tasked by my employer-slash-business partner – your goodbrother – to chauffeur you for your day of pre-planned and, importantly, _pre-paid_, entertaining and time-wasting activities.” Brienne opened her mouth, and Bronn shook his head. “Don’t even think of saying no, I’ve got a Stark and a Tyrell in the car and it’s been an hour and a half from King’s Landing. You’re not allowed to leave me alone with those women any longer.”

“For your sake or theirs?” Brienne asked dryly, but she grabbed her jacket and keys from the hooks by the door and called Tess. “Am I allowed to know what’s on my schedule?”

“I believe the technical term is _girl-stuff_,” Bronn said, leading the way to the car.

The specific Stark and the particular Tyrell in the car turned out to be Sansa and Margaery, who greeted Brienne with excited squeals when she climbed into the front seat, and Tess with pats and kissing noises when she scrambled into the back with them. _Girl-stuff_ was revealed to be, first off, a morning in Rosby’s single day-spa, where Brienne gave a firm _no_ to the full-body scrub and the offer of waxing, but gladly acceded to having the toenails she could no longer see cut and painted. The spa had a communal bath, too, so she could soak without worrying about how she’d get herself upright again while Tess lay sprawled out on the floor, occasionally snorting in protest at the heavy floral scents filling the air. 

Then lunch, which was a picnic from the huge hampers Bronn heaved out of the boot of the car. Sansa spent an inordinate amount of time listing each and every item of food and exactly why it was suitable for women in the last months of carrying while Brienne’s stomach growled more and more fiercely, but she was more touched by how much research her young friend had done than she was frustrated. Margaery announced with great self-sacrifice that they’d all be drinking juice, since it wouldn’t be fair on Brienne to have to watch the other two drink champagne, and Brienne thanked her and hid her smile. Afterwards, the three of them strolled around the shopping district while Bronn trailed them in the car. Margaery found a shop selling age-of-ice-and-fire-styled baby clothes suspiciously quickly, and by the time they dropped Brienne back at the house and hugged her goodbye, she was laden with a baker’s dozen bags crammed full of tiny hats, tiny shoes, tiny shirts that looked like leather jerkins.

_And the Seven only know what else,_ Brienne thought as she stacked them in the corner of the living room, because she’d given up trying to keep track fairly early on in the process. There was at least one plush toy shaped like a broadsword, she was sure of that. _If I take it all out of the bags, I’ll just have to pack it again later_. Instead, she lay down on the couch and closed her eyes. _I’ll make dinner in a minute …_

“Wench,” Jaime said, and Brienne opened her eyes to see him sitting on the edge of the couch, looking down at her with a soft smile. “Have you eaten dinner?” When she shook her head, he stretched to snatch a paper bag from the coffee table. “Honey roast rabbit, a salad of green beans and onions, white beans and bacon, and a lemon cake.”

“Oh, I love you,” Brienne said, snatching the bag and opening it. “Oh, Jaime, I haven’t fed Tess!”

Jaime laughed, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I did it before I woke you. And I’ll get you a fork.”

“Don’t bother.” Brienne picked up a slice of rabbit with her fingers and ate it.

“You’ll need it for the beans, at least.” Jaime went into the kitchen and came back with cutlery. “Did you have a good day with the girls?”

Brienne chewed and swallowed, and paused for a second. “You knew about that? Did you arrange it?”

He looked a little nervous. “I just thought you might be bored.”

“I love you,” Brienne said again, digging the fork he’d given her into the white beans. “Oh, these are so good. Where are they from?”

“Set catering,” Jaime said.

Brienne stopped. “Jaime, am I eating your dinner?”

He laughed. “No, wench. I’ve had my grilled vegetables and steamed whitefish already. This is all yours.” He paused. “I’ve got today’s rushes, if you want to see?”

“Of cour’ I ‘o,” Brienne said with her mouth full. “’y lapto’ is on the co’er.”

“We have the latest in technology, wench.” Jaime went over to the television, producing a weirstick from his pocket. “Nothing but the best for double-oh-three.” He plugged it into the side of the television and grabbed the remote.

Brienne started to heave herself upright. “Hang on, let me sit up –”

Jaime came back to the couch, picked up her feet and sat down, lowering them to rest on his lap. “Stay where you are.” He rubbed his thumb over the arch of her foot. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Brienne said, chasing the last of the green beans around the bottom of the container.

Jaime clicked the remote, and the screen came on. Jaime and Victaria Tyrell – almost unrecognisable in a baggy pantsuit and an unflattering haircut – walked into a crowded mall, carefully not looking at each other. Brienne finished the rabbit and the white beans as she watched several takes of the long-shot that had Jaime and Victaria moving through the crowd of shoppers with increasing urgency. She started on the lemoncake as the medium-length takes started, Jaime and Victaria exchanging subtle glances as they wove through the innocent bystanders – at least, Brienne assumed they would be exchanging glances once the editing cut the takes together.

“I presume Victaria gets a _why, Miss Brownhill _moment somewhere in the film?”

Jaime chuckled. “Second act.”

“Expensive make-over?”

Jaime shook his head. “Fight sequence in which her clothes are torn off.”

Brienne sighed. “Of course.” The takes of the close-ups played. “It looks good, Jaime, but I can’t tell without knowing where it comes in the film.”

“Act one,” Jaime said. “It’s the set up to the first big fight scene, which we won’t shoot until next year.”

Brienne tried to remember the details of the script. “So it’s when you two are co-workers but before the romance starts?”

Jaime nodded. “Hill doesn’t start getting interested in her until he sees her killing the enemy agent by crushing his neck with her thighs.”

Brienne snorted. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

Jaime ran his hand over her shin, smiling. “Don’t blame Stannis, wench, he doesn’t have final script approval. This is a _franchise_.”

“But let me guess, she carries a torch for you from scene one, act one?”

He grinned at her. “That’s the Jay Hill brand, wench. He’s the man every man wants to be and every woman wants to bed.” He leaned down to kiss her. “Have you had enough to eat, or should I order more?”

Brienne reached up to tug Jaime down against her. “I couldn’t eat another bite right now, but experience tells me I’m going to be hungry again in about two hours.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, at least as far as he could reach. “Toast hungry, or four course meal hungry?”

“In between,” Brienne said. “Omelette hungry. But you’ve got an early call tomorrow, so maybe order something I can heat up?”

He kissed her cheek. “Given that you’re doing all the hard work, the least I can do is make you an omelette.”

“You’re working hard too,” Brienne said.

“I’m not, though.” Jaime carded his fingers through her hair. “Honestly, I was ready for this to be the toughest gig I ever signed on for – a lead, a huge franchise – but there’s only about five minutes worth of work in every hour and the rest is waiting around.” He grinned at her. “And when you’re the star, waiting around means sitting in a comfortable chair while people offer you fruit juice and low-carb snacks.” He kissed her cheek again. “So don’t worry. I’ll have plenty of time to nap tomorrow. So let’s go to bed, and when you wake up hungry, kick me in the shins and tell me you want an omelette, and I’ll get up and make you one.”

“With Meereenese peppers.” Brienne held out her hands for him to help her up.

“With Meereenese peppers,” Jaime agreed.


	171. Ravens XVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes ...

08:18 Me: _Hey want 2 write a script 4 me? Short film? _

09:22 Pegleg: _Can’t. Starting onset rewrites on Blood for a Silver Stag next month. _

09:23 Me: _you could hammer it out by then_

10:15 Pegleg: _I really couldn’t. _

11:55 Me: _shit. Is there someone else I could hire?_

12:42 Pegleg: _I’m presuming you already asked Alys and she said no before you ravened me. _

14:15 Pegleg: _why are you doing a short film anyway? _

15:11 Me: _I’m directing not acting. And 4 the practise. _

15:32 Pegleg: _I do have a short script that’s never been optioned, wrote it for an assignment years ago. Could take a look and see if it’s fixable._

16:12 Me: _what’s it about?_

16:32 Pegleg: _amnesia. Real amnesia not soap opera type. The mc can’t remember anything that happened after his wife’s murder. And he’s hunting the killer_

17:11 Me: _fridging the wife will get you a lecture from mine_

17:30 Pegleg: _also it’s told backwards._

17:54 Me: _I dunno it sounds more expert than I am. _

18:12 Pegleg: _I’ll raven you 2 versions, one as it’ll screen and one in actual order. Read the real one first._

* * *

11:22 Dad: _How are you?_

11:34 B Tarth: _Fat. Impatient._

11:50 Dad: _Hang in there, sweetling. It will all be worth it._

12:15 B Tarth : _I love you dad but that’s not helpful right now. _

12:22 Dad: _It will be over soon?_

12:32 Dad: _your mum made me do the first 100 diapers before she said we were even for Galladon, and for you. _

12:40 B Tarth: _I will definitely take after Mum in that regard. _

* * *

06:14 Me: _hey wnt to make a short film?_

06:18 Robb Wolf: _for who?_

06:19 Me: _4 me it’s practice._

06:20 Me: _you play a guy who can’t remember new things. _

06:21 Me: _that’s a real thing I looked on 3ER_

06:22 Me: _he’s trying to find the guy who murdered his wife_

06:22 Me: _there’s a twist. _

07:02 Robb Wolf: _when r you shooting?_

07:13 Me: _three months about. Interiors at Hayford exteriors Rosby. I won’t have a lot fo free time so I need good actors who can give me one take_.

07:14 Me: _also cd you ask your mum if she represents Ellyn Tarbeck? _

* * *

09:05 Goodfather: _How are you, son? How’s Brienne?_

09:55 Me: _both good._

09:56 Me: _sry 4 late reply was on set._

09:56 Me: _Stannis the mannis is vry struct on phones on set_

10:15 Goodfather: _I assumed that was the case. I wanted to ask you about an odd call I had from your brother. _

10:16 Me: _Tyrion? Wat? _

10:17 Goodfather: _Apparently he’s interested in building a hospital in Morne?_

10:18 Me: _ys I told him there wasn’t 1 on tarth_

11:15 Goodfather: _We have a medical centre there. And it’s not even that busy. He’ll go broke._

11:32 Me: _lol no he won’t_

11:43 Goodfather: _there aren’t enough people on Tarth to need a hospital, and most of the ones here couldn’t afford any elective care. The medical centre is 80% council funded._

11:44 Me: _1st_ _Tyrion cd probly fund hospital with the change his cleaner finds down the back of the couch each week _

11:45 Me: _2nd it will be free_

11:46 Me: _3rd we will do a celebrity fundraiser every year _

11:47 Me: _4 it’s a tax-write off 4 him if it loses money and you shd c his tax bracket_

11:49 Me: _5 I do not want my goodfather or my wife or my child having to be flown to KL if they need a hospital_

12:01 Goodfather: _Son, it’s the reality of living somewhere like this_

12:52 Me: _it shdn’t b_

12:53 Me: _I’ll raven you this article from Sasna Stark abt it_

12:58 Goodfather: _are you two going to personally fund hospitals in every remote location in the Seven Kingdoms?_

13:02 Me: _no if things go 2 plan Renly will be shamed in2 doing it 4 us. _

13:03 Me: _might have 2 build a few more tho _

* * *

10:12 Cat Claw: _Robb says you want to reach Ellyn Tarbeck’s agent?_

10:48 Me: _yeah ma making a short film she’d be good as the lead. _

10:49 Me: _she just has to be murderey _

10:51 Cat Claw: _raven me the script and put me in touch with your producer_

10:52 Me: _I don’t so much have a producer as a list of notes on the back of an envelope_

10:55 Cat Claw: _I’m not surprised. Alarmed, but not surprised._

11:28 Cat Claw: _Call Dagos Manwoody. He quit The Gulltown Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society because his wife had a canker but it turned out to be benign, he’s available for work_

11:49 Me: _It’s just a short film do I need a producer?_

12:52 Cat Claw: _ the fact that you’re asking the question tells me you do_

13:11 Me: _I’ll raven him_

13:12: Me: _Is manwoody his real name or did he change it?_

13:40 Cat Claw: _even rickon has grown out of that joke._

13:42 Me: _did he tho?_

* * *

14:42 Unknown Number: _Hi, this is Bellegere Otherys from Black Pearl. your PA said I could contact you directly. _

14:51 B Tarth: _Yes, it seemed silly having your people talking to my people._

14:52 B Tarth: _It seems silly having people. _

15:10 Bellegere O: _We’re all very excited that you’re willing to let us sponsor you, and your idea about a maternity-wear campaign sounds great. We already have a range directed at pregnant women, in fact. _

15:22 B Tarth: _I know, I ordered a whole lot of them and tried them out before I had Pia contact you. _

15:25 B Tarth: _I thought you could get some other women too? At different stages? _

15:32 B Tarth: _and a doctor – a real one – talking about the importance of exercise. _

15:42 Bellegere O: _we can look at that. It fits with your brand, which helps us too._

16:01 B Tarth: _my brand? _

16:10 Bellegere O: _health ambassador. With the WVGA stuff. The more credibility you have, the more you choosing our brand helps us. People will assume you did it because it’s good for them. _

16:15 B Tarth: _I did do it because it’s good. Excellent abdominal support and it’s a really clever design in the tops to not constrict the chest. Getting a deep breath is a problem at this stage. _

16:32 B Tarth: _but if you want to shoot me pregnant you’ll have to come to Rosby and you’ll have to do it in the next few weeks. _

16:35 Bellegere O: _that can happen. Do you want to discuss payment?_

16:40 B Tarth: _Tyrion Lannister handles that for me._

16:50 Bellegere O: _lucky you. Unlucky me. _

* * *

11:22 Unknown Number: _Catelyn Stark says you have a role for me?_

11:23 Unknown Number: _this is Ellyn Tarbeck_

11:39 Me: _yes. Short film. Woman manipulate amnesiac to have her ex killed_

11:45 Red Lioness: _does it pay?_

12:05 Me: _not much. Award rates_

12:15 Red Lioness: _my WAG card lasped long ago_

12:21 Me: _production will cover your renewal fee. Want 2 c script?_

12:25 Red Lioness: _yes._

* * *

13:11 Me: _I still don’t get the whole thing about Samwell Spicer_

13:12 Me: _he accidentlly killed his wife? How does that relate to the murder_

13:15 Pegleg: _he didn’t. He was a fraud. It’s in act 5 scene 3. _

13:16 Me: _so he was a fraud but Lenwood isn’t?_

13:17 Me: _can’t it be cut? What does it add?_

13:21 Pegleg: _lenwood killed his wife. That’s what it adds. _

13:22 Me: _wat do you mean L killed his wife? Jack G killed his wife_

13:25 Pegleg: _no JG gave him the head injury which gave him amnesia which was the reason why he killed his wife accidentally in exactly the way he tells the story of Samwell Spicer. L’s wife was the diabetic. _

13:28 Pegleg: _t’s all in the exposition in the second last scene. When he kills the first guy. _

13:35 Me: _I have to read it again. _

13:43 Me: _shit this is dark stuff_

13:58 Pegleg: _you don’t have to option it. I just offered because you were looking for a script_

14:11 Me: _try and stop me. _

* * *

11:23 Me: _hows your shoot going_

12:11 Wife: _I can still touch my knees. Wasn’t sure. _

12:13 Me: _well, you have me 2 touch your knees 4 you_

12:14 Me: _and other parts_

13:11 Wife: _Jaime I’m at work!_

13:14 Me: _I meant rubbing your feet, wench. You have a dirty mind. I’m blushing. _

14:12 Wife: _Are you though?_

* * *

17:11 Me: _Ravened you the advance proofs from B’s shoot. _

17:35 Goodfather: _Thanks, son. How are things?_

18:12 Me: _I think B feels better for doing the campaign. At least it’s something, you know?_

18:30 Goodfather: _she’ll be fine once the babe is here. Better than fine. If there’s one thing my girl thrives on it’s being busy. Taking care of a newborn, getting back in shape, and working, that’ll keep her busy._

18:32 Me: _I’m going to hire a couple of nannies for the babe._

18:36 Goodfather: _have you talked to Brienne about that?_

18:40 Me: _she’ll love it. she can get her old life back and still be a mum._

18:41 Goodfather: _son, maybe talk to Brienne about the idea before you go ahead. _

* * *

20:11 B Tarth: _Not just a nanny, but two! Two of them! I could murder him!_

20:12 B Tarth: _Sorry dad I know its late_

20:15 Dad: _I was just watching Antiques Kingsroadshow, it’s not that late. _

20:16 B Tarth: _I know I’m bad at being pregnant but tht doesn’t mean I need 2 peopl to help me take care of my babe._

20:18 Dad: _Sweetling, I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that. _

20:19 Dad: _your mum always said a newborn was equivalent to one and a half fulltime jobs. And your Jaime is going to spend the rest of the year working one and a half jobs on his movie. That’s three jobs between two people even if you don’t do anything else and sweetling, you know you’re going to find yourself doing something else. You can’t be idle for a day. _

20:21 Dad: _so that’s four jobs. So maybe at least one more person to help you and Jaime work those four jobs?_

20:23 B Tarth: _Mum didn’t need a nanny for me or Gal. _

20:25 Dad: _your mum and I had neighbours. Do you think either of us cooked, the first month after Gal was born? Or cleaned, for that matter?_

20:26 Dad: _Sweetling, your first sentence was Dad I can do it myself_, _and I love that about you, but that doesn’t mean you have to do it yourself. Not all of it. _

20:27 Dad: _It’s not someone taking care of your babe for you, it’s someone helping you take care of your babe. And when you both have to go to some fancy dinner or red carpet or whatever, you can leave the babe with someone they know and feel safe with. _

20:31 B Tarth: _So Jaime is right?_

20:35 Dad: _No sweetling, you’re right. But Jaime is well-intentioned._

* * *

05:01 Me: _you know Jeyne P right?_

05:04 Carrot Top: _yes_

05:11 Me: _why are you up looking at your phone so early?_

05:12 Carrot Top: _I’m on the bus to Castle Black for roday’s council meeting. Y r u?_

05:13 Me: _makeup call. Listen I liked jeyne and she seemed smart and practical, but how is she with kids?_

05:14 Carrot Top: _eldest of three and she was always great with Bran and rickon, even when rickon was a complete shjit. Y? _

05:17 Me: _thot she cld b a nanny 4 us. _

* * *

08:03 Me: _listen are you free for more work? Long term this time, but not in the North. _

08:52 Grey Jeyne: _you just said two of my two favourite words_

08:58 Me: _we’re about 2 b parents_

09:15 Grey Jeyne: _I know I read the papers_

09:22 Me: _Need a nanny. Mostly to help. And babysit for events and stuff._

09:34 Grey Jeyne: _you want to me to shop, change diapers, do laundry._

10:12 Me: _pretty much but you didn’t include the great salary package_

10:34 Grey Jeyne: _if it includes accommodation I’m in. _

* * *

13:12 B Tarth: _Hi. It’s Brienne. _

13:32 Jeyne P: _ Hi. _

13:33 B Tarth: _Jaime suggested we might hire you as a nanny._

13:43 Jeyne P: _I’m not trained or anything but I have two younger sibs. So I know a bit. _

13:44 Jeyne P: _I cant be an early childhood development specialist or anything. But I can launder diapers and look after the babe when you’re out_

13:46 Jeyne P: _and I’m very good at shopping. _

13:57 B Tarth: _I’m just not sure I really need a nanny_

14:03 Jeyne P: _I’m not sure I really am a nanny. But neither of my sibs ate anything fatal and I spent enough tedious hours stocking shelves at the Moat Cailin Speedymart to have learnt how to get in and out of a supermarket in the shortest possible time. _

15:23 Jeyne P: _and also, and I know this sounds pathetic, but a job that pays enough to save for the Citadel or that isn’t somewhere where going outdoors in winter can kill you is sort of my fantasy. And this is both. _

15:32 B Tarth: _When can you start? _

* * *

09:22 Jeyne P: _preference on pears?_

09:32 B Tarth: _no but Jaime might_

09:36 Jeyne P: _sale on lemons_

09:37 B Tarth: _then get them instead of limes_

09:42 Jeyne P: _hare is one eighth the price of venison_

09:46 B Tarth: _Jaime likes venison pie. But get half what I asked for, and the rest hare._

10:03 Jeyne P: _great deal on apples_

10:04 B Tarth: _go wild. I can make tarts and freeze them. _

10:07 Jeyne P: _premade pastry or extra flour and butter?_

10:11 B Tarth: _the second. Also cinnamon. _

10:15 Jeyne P: _on it. _

10:19 Jeyne P: _Leeks?_

10:21 B Tarth: _always. _

10:23 B Tarth: _get extra please to send to Jaqen. _

* * *

11:22 Unknown Number: _Cat Stark said you needed a producer?_

11:32 Me: _the pay is award wage only_

11:34 D Boyhardon: _I’m currently unemployed, so … _

11:36 Me: _Was glad to learn you wife is alright btw. And I would have totally dne the same thnge. _

11:42 Me: _but yeah I’m told I need a procuder for a short filrm. _

11:43 Me: _ it’s jyts 4 pratcise, short shoot, about 2mths time, Hayford and Rosby_

11:45 D Boyhardon: _Raven me details, script, shooting order and a contract._

11:48 Me: _great thx. _

* * *

14:22 Jeyne P: _There’s someone here with a delivery. Were you expecting sthing? _

14:28 B Tarth: _No. _

14:28 B Tarth: _if it’s a horse I’ll kill Jaime._

14:31 Jeyne P: _It’s not a horse. It’s a big crate with a bigger scary-looking man. _

14:32 B Tarth: _don’t open the door to someone you don’t know_

14:33 Jeyne P: _yes mum. _

14:32 Jeyne P: _he says he can’t leave it at the door and that you know him._

14:34 B Tarth: _scary-looking with burn scars?_

14:36 Jeyne P: _and a scowl._

14:37 B Tarth: _3ER gravedigger film and check pictures of Sandor Clegane. If it’s Sandor, let him in, tell him I’ll be home soon_

14:45 Jeyne P: _it’s sandor. He’s waiting. I gave him tea but he looks hungry._

14:52 B Tarth: _left-over hare stew in the fridge _

* * *

16:32 Wife: _you know how we special-ordered that paediatrician recommended crib at eye-watering expense? _

16:35 Wife: _Well._[picture of a crib on rockers carved from a pale wood with red veins]

16:37 Me: _have you been on WeirBuy again? _

16:37 Me: _jking, it’s still not a horse_

16:42 Wife: _sandor brought it. It’s from Catelyn. It’s a Stark family heirloom. _

16:43 Wife: _it’s a loan. Until Robb and Jeyne have their first. _

16:45 Me: _well we have 2 houses so 2 cribs not unereasonable. _

16:48 Wife: _do you think it looks safe?_

16:49 Me: _I think that generations of starklings have apparently safety-tested it for us. _

16:50 Wife: _good point. _

16:51 Wife: _how late are you shooting? Should I cook? _

16:53 Me: _not late, and absolutely. If you’re not too tired. _

17:04 Wife: _Jeyne wanted to buy some clothes in King’s Landing today and she went to Fishmonger’s Yard for me. Mussels?_

17:05 Me: _it kills me to say no but I have to kiss Asha tomorrow _

17:06 Me: _shellfish is like garlic or smoking. Either you both do, or you both don’t. _

17:07 Wife: _steamed whitefish with sautéed leeks?_

17:10 Me: _perfect_

* * *

11:22 D Boyhardon: _I’ve booked your set time at Hayford and arranged shooting locations in Rosby. _

11:32 Me: _cool thx_

11:34 D Boyhardon: _also I thought you might want to use Sarsfield Studios for editing and looping. It does mean flying there but their rates are more than reasonable. _

11:45 Me: _shit I forgot about all that. _

11:46 Me: _thx. Book them. _

11:53: D Boyhardon: _done. also booked travel + accom for your talent. Got Gylbert Farwynd for cinematography and Vortimer Crane for sound._

11:59 Me: _don’t know them. _

12:05 D Boyhardon: _GF won an Iron Throne for his work on Lonely Light. VC’s worked with Highgarden for years. I’ve worked with them boith, they’re good. _

12:10 Me: _k thanks. _

12:15 D Boyhardon: _booked Hayford services for wardrobe and makeup and craft services_

12:17 Me: _I’m not paying you enuff_

* * *

14:28 Robb Wolf: _r u really sure this is a short film? _

14:52 Me: _Willas said so_

14:53 Robb Wolf: _I did a table read with Mum and Bran and it clocked in at 82 mins. _

14:55 Me: _does Bran speak slow? _

14:56 Me: _also do you relly think Keepsake is age aprpoate? _

14:48 Robb Wolf: _I think that since he worked out how to disable parental controls on 3ER he’s seen a lot worse than a printed script. And no. _

14:52 Me: _Robb says the script runs almost feature length_

14:59 Pegleg: _I did add some stuff when I tweaked it up_

15:03 Me: _what stuiff?_

15:05 Pegleg: _the second timeline. _

15:07 Me: _willas I am doing this between my paternity leave and the braavos shoot I do not have tme to maek a feature _

15:10 Pegleg: _hire an AD and give themall the 2nd unit stuff_

15:14 Me: _I don’t have a second unit!_

15:17 Pegleg: _they can use the first unit and do it while you’re in braavos_

15:20 Pegleg: _that’s what Grandmama did on her 1st film but in reverse. She was committed to a publicity tour for Fairmarket Story so she had her AD shoot all the 2nd unit stuff while she did that_

15:21 Pegleg: _had the dailies flown to her. but you can just have them ravened. _

15:24 Me: _alright, that might actually work. If I can keep the shooting time down. _


	172. Jaime LXV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day of shooting goes ... not as expected.

Jaime rested his elbow on the prop bar. “The name’s Hill. Jay Hill.”

Asha Greyjoy leaned back against the bar, working her metallic grey costume to within an inch of its life. “And will you have a drink with me, Jay Hill?”

“A martini,” Jaime said, and grinned, not letting it touch his eyes. “Dirty and dry.”

“And cut,” Stannis Baratheon said. “Craft and services, clear set, please. Art as well. Talent only. Thank you.”

Jaime blinked. He pushed himself off the bar and approached Stannis as the crew quickly headed for the exit. “Was it that bad? I thought …?”

“It was fine, we’ll probably use it in the final cut,” Stannis said. He glanced around as staff scurried to exit the set. “Jaime.” He clasped Jaime’s arm. “Peck is here to drive you to the hospital.”

Jaime gaped at him. “But I’m not – all I did was sit on a stool, Stannis, even the insurance company can’t suspect I’ve hurt myself –”

“Brienne’s in labour,” Stannis said. “According to your man Peck, Pia’s driven her to the Rosby Medical Centre, Pod’s on his way back to King’s Landing to meet her father when his seaplane lands, Garrett is in charge of your pets and Lewys is standing by for any errands.”

“Fuck.” Jaime stared at Stannis. _The maester said it might be another week. _“Fuck.”

Stannis squeezed Jaime’s bicep. “Go. Get in the car, go be with your wife.”

“Is she alright?” Jaime demanded as he and Peck hurried from the set. _I should have stayed home. I should have insisted on starting my leave. The babe was due three days ago. But the maester said it wasn’t close, yet. _“Is she alright?”

“Pia said she was fine.” Peck unlocked the car and got behind the wheel. Jaime hurried around to throw himself in the passenger seat. “Pia said that Brienne said to tell you she was fine.” He paused. “Seatbelt, Mr Jaime.”

Jaime clawed it across his body and shoved the clasp home. “Go. Go!”

Pia was waiting on the wide front ramp of the Rosby Medical Centre. Jaime flung himself out of the car as Peck brought it to a halt. “Why are you out here? Why aren’t you with her?”

“Ms Brienne asked me to wait here for you so I could show you where she is,” Pia said. She bit her lip. “She specifically told me to tell you you’re not allowed to yell at me about it. And Jeyne is with her.”

Jaime started for the front doors. “Is she alright?”

“Her contractions are only seven minutes apart yet, they wanted to send her home to wait for the next stage –”

“Fuck that.” Jaime strode through the door. “Where is she?”

“Left, left again –” Pia trotted after him. “Second corridor – third door on the right.”

Jaime identified it and shoved it open. “Brienne?”

The room looked more like a motel room than a medical suite: a utilitarian bed, a television on a low stand, a desk and chair by the window. Brienne sat at the desk, head in her hands, Jeyne crouched beside her holding a paper cup.

“Brienne.” Jaime crossed to her. “Are you alright? Where’s the maester? Why did they put you in here and not a proper room?” He dropped to his knees beside her and put his hand on her arm. “What do you need?”

“For you to shut up for sixty heartbeats,” Brienne said tightly, and gripped his hand hard enough to hurt.


	173. Jaime LVX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A child is born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for child-birth. If you feel you want to skip it, I’ll catch you up briefly at the beginning of the next chapter.
> 
> Guys, I have never been so nervous about a chapter because there are few things more personal than experiencing the birth of your child and I know we all have a lot invested in these characters. So please know, I really considered all the aspects of this, but also please know, I understand if you object to what I've written and am prepared for you to let me know.

Jaime shut up, and held her hand, and counted heartbeats. He’d only reached two-and-forty when Brienne relaxed her grip and raised her head with a sigh of relief. “Sorry. I can’t really do anything else when it’s happening.”

Jaime reached up to wrap his arms around her. “What do you need? Where’s the maester?” He glanced at Jeyne. “Do you want some water? Jeyne has some.”

“I’m fine for now. The midwife will be back in a bit.” Brienne put her head on his shoulder. “It’s still early, I could probably have waited at home a while longer.” She sat up to smile at him. “But I thought about what you’d say if you got home and discovered I’d been in labour for five hours.”

“Words I’ll have to excise from my vocabulary before little Flatulence learns to talk,” Jaime said. He kissed her cheek. “Does it hurt terribly?”

Brienne shook her head. “Not yet, anyway. Not more than the last hundred steps up Visenya’s Hill.”

“Fuck, that’s agony,” Jaime said. 

“Honestly it’s the closest I’ve come to real exercise in months.” Brienne grinned. “I’ll probably feel differently in a few hours.”

“Are they going to move you somewhere when …” Everything Brienne’s maester had said about birth was gone from Jaime’s mind as if it had never existed. _We have a birth plan. I know we have a birth plan. _

_What the fuck is on it? _

Brienne’s smile softened. “Active labour,” she prompted. “And no. Unless something goes wrong, little Flatulence will be born in here.”

Jaime looked around, frowning. “They could have picked something more welcoming than mushroom for the colour scheme.”

“Jaime …” Brienne said, and then stiffened and gripped his hand again, panting.

Jaime shut up again and counted his heartbeats, concentrating on not whimpering as Brienne’s bruising strength squeezed his fingers together. “That wasn’t seven minutes,” he said when she’d relaxed again.

Brienne shook her head. “They’re getting closer. And stronger. Jeyne, can you tell the midwife?”

“Right away,” Jeyne said, and fled.

By the time she came back with the midwife – a slim, bespectacled woman who looked barely older than a girl – Brienne was in the throes of another contraction. 

“You _have_ done this before?” Jaime asked the girl once Brienne was through it.

“More than a few times.” The midwife fit the earpieces of her stethoscope to her ears. “Pull up your top for me, Mum?”

Brienne raised her shirt. “I’ve been doing kick-counts.”

“And they’re fine?” the midwife asked, and smiled when Brienne nodded. “Well, nice steady heartbeat there, right on the average. Baby is doing well. And how are Mum and Dad doing?”

“It’s faster than the maester said it would be,” Brienne said quietly. “Is that bad?”

The midwife shook her head. “There’s a huge difference between what’s average and what’s at either end of what’s healthy. You’re full-term. Your scans show your babe is thriving. There’s no sign of any distress. Now, can you take off your pants and pop up on the bed so I can check on your progress?”

Brienne nodded.

“Jeyne, you can wait outside now, and make sure no-one wanders in,” Jaime said. He helped Brienne to her feet and over to the bed. Together they got her trackpants and smallclothes off before another contraction doubled her over.

“Why don’t you move up to the head of the bed, Dad?” the midwife suggested, putting on her gloves.

“He has seen my bits before,” Brienne snapped. “Of all the people who’ve peered at my parts over the past nine months, Jaime is the only one who doesn’t actually bother me.”

“Some men just find it a bit of a shock. Open your knees a little more? There we are.” Brienne grunted as the midwife probed her. “Coming along nicely. I don’t think you’ll have to wait too much longer at all to meet your babe.” The midwife straightened up and stripped off her gloves. “Your chart says you’ve been doing your massages, that’s good. I’ll take your blood pressure after your next contraction.”

“Shouldn’t there be monitors and things?” Jaime asked. _They were always all over the place on Frey’s Anatomy._ “And a maester? And –”

“Jaime.” Brienne held out her hand and he took it. “Dyah, how many babes are born here each year?” 

“About fifty,” the midwife said.

Brienne squeezed Jaime’s fingers. “They do know what they’re doing, Jaime.”

“If you both want, I can have you moved to our high-risk labour unit,” Dyah offered. “Some mums are more comfortable with more monitoring, some find it off-putting.”

“I prefer this,” Brienne said. “But if it’s important to you, Jaime, we can move.”

_Yes, let’s move_. The words were on his lips. _What in the Seven Hells possessed me to agree that a medical centre was good enough, anyway? Why aren’t we in Hayford, or better yet, King’s Landing, with a _real_ hospital? _He absolutely wanted more monitoring, he wanted _all_ the monitoring and a whole team of maesters who were at the top of their specialities.

But that was not what Brienne wanted, was it? _And she’s the one who has to do this. _All of it, for the last nine months, the nausea and the exhaustion and the infuriating restrictions on what she could and couldn’t do, could and couldn’t eat. _And now all of this_.

He took a deep breath. _She’s not my mother_, he reminded himself, the way Luwin had coached him to do when the panic threatened. _My mother had an undiagnosed complication. Brienne has been checked for every complication there is. She’s strong and healthy and so is the babe._ “No,” he said, and his voice was steady even though he had to call on all his training and professional experience to make it so. “No, whatever _you_ want, wench.”

“I love you,” Brienne said, and then crushed his hand again as she panted through another contraction.

The next hours passed in a blur. Dyah largely left them alone, coming back to check the babe’s heartbeat and Brienne’s blood-pressure and progress several times an hour. Jaime shed his tuxedo jacket, and then his tie, and then his cufflinks to roll up his sleeves. Brienne tried lying on her side on the bed, and then walking slowly back and forth, and finally settled on kneeling on a pillow beside the bed, arms propped on the mattress. Jaime rubbed her back, bathed her face and wrists with cool water when she complained of being hot, and made sure her water glass was never empty.

Apart from those tiny things, he could do nothing to help Brienne as she panted and groaned and rocked through what seemed to be increasingly painful contractions. At first, when she relaxed between them, Jaime was able to make her smile and even laugh with nonsense about the babe being part-Selkie or perhaps destined for a life of merfolk piracy, but as time passed Brienne grew quieter and quieter, focusing in the way she did when Sandor was teaching her a new parry or when he’d said _You’re ready for more, Tarth_ and racked more weight on to the machines – except this was clearly harder work than any training ever required.

“Tell me what you need me to do,” he said softly, rubbing her shoulder as she propped herself against the bed and tried to catch her breath. “Please, Brienne.”

She settled back on her heels and leaned against him. “Just be here. The backrubs are nice, but all I _need_ is for you to be here.”

“How are you doing?” Dyah asked from the door.

“Alright, I thi – _fuck!_” Brienne rocked forward again, bracing herself against the bed, panting hard, for what seemed to be longer than usual before slumping back again. “That was a strong one.”

“Let me just check on everyone,” Dyah said, crouching down beside them with her stethoscope in her ears already. “Babe’s heartbeat … perfect. Mum’s heartbeat … well, if I didn’t know from your chart that you’re an athlete I’d know it now.” She pulled on her gloves. “Lift up a little so I can check on your progress. Oh, definitely not long now. Ease back down and let me check your blood pressure.”

“How long?” Jaime asked as Dyah slipped the blood-pressure cuff onto Brienne’s arm. “How long now, exactly?”

“You’ve had a fairly fast labour so far,” Dyah said. “Average once a mum reaches this point? Between a quarter hour and three hours. Excellent blood pressure.” She took the cuff off. “I think you’re in the last stage now. Your contractions are going to be coming more rapidly, they’ll be longer and much stronger. If you feel the need to push, don’t. You’re not quite ready yet.” She stood up. “I’m going to alert the maester, and you have a think about whether you want to deliver there, or on the bed, or if you’d rather a birthing stool.”

“Jaime,” Brienne whispered after Dyah left the room. “Jaime, I can’t do this for three more hours.”

Jaime stroked her hair, easing back the strands that clung to her sweaty face. “Can you do a quarter hour?”

“My waters haven’t even broken! It won’t be a quarter hour. It’ll be forever.” She stiffened suddenly and lurched forward. “Oh – hurts – oh –”

“Breathe.” Jaime rubbed her back. “With me. In … in … in … in … out … out … out. And in … in … in … in … out … out … out.” 

After what seemed like forever, Brienne slumped back against him. “I can’t. I can’t do it. I was stupid to even think I could, just a stupid girl who thought I could be a proper mother, I –”

“Brienne Tarth, I will not put up with you being rude about my wife,” Jaime said firmly. He carded her sweaty, tangled hair. “You are strong and brave and a certified hero and if you need me to tell them that you’ll be having a surgical delivery, it will have nothing to do with being a proper mother. Would you let someone say that about one of your friends?”

“No,” Brienne whispered.

“Then don’t you say it about my wife, thank you very much.” He kissed the top of her head. “Now, do you want me to tell the maester that you want a surgical delivery right now, or do you want to try for one more quarter hour?”

“I can try,” Brienne said hesitantly, and then repeated it more firmly. “I can try.”

“Of course you can, wench.” Jaime reached out to snag the damp cloth and wiped her face carefully. “You can do anything. You’re the Blue Knight, after all.”

She was in the grip of another contraction when Dyah came back with the maester, a woman whose wrinkled face and gnarled hands were infinitely more reassuring than Dyah’s youth. After that first glance, Jaime ignored her, concentrating on talking Brienne through breathing steadily while she endured what seemed to be absolute torture. When she leaned back against him, he wiped her face again. “You’re doing so well, wench.” He checked his watch. “Just over three-and-ten more minutes, alright?”

Brienne nodded.

“I’m Maester Ferny,” the old woman said. “And it might be longer than that.”

“If it’s longer than that, we’ll be opting for surgery,” Jaime said. He stroked Brienne’s hair. “My wife’s had about enough.”

“I want to try,” Brienne said, quietly. “If I can. I want to try.”

“You don’t have to,” Jaime reassured her. “You don’t need to.”

“I’m just going to check on your progress,” the maester said. “Just ease up – oh, here’s another contraction.”

“Breathe, in and in and in and in,” Jaime said, rubbing Brienne’s back. “And out, and out, and out. And in, and in, and in …”

“It’s so hard,” Brienne panted, collapsing back against him after a moment.

“As the actress said to the septon,” Jaime said.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Brienne gasped. “I’m too tired to laugh.”

“As the septon said to the actress.”

Brienne smiled, and whimpered a little, and turned her face to his chest.

“Knee up for me?” Maester Ferny asked. Brienne raised her leg a little, the muscles of her thigh visibly shivering. “Dad. Help Mum lift her knee.”

His left arm was holding Brienne close to his chest as she sagged exhaustedly, so Jaime flexed his weak right hand a couple of times and then reached past Brienne’s bulging stomach to her knee. “So the maester can see, wench,” he said, easing it upwards. “Alright, I’ve got you.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“You’re doing so well,” Jaime assured her. “You’re doing perfectly.”

“You’re very closely to fully dilated,” the maester said after a moment.

“My waters haven’t broken!” Brienne stiffened again, grabbing at Jaime’s shoulder. “No – too fast –”

Jaime gave the maester a panicked glance.

“Breathe,” the maester said. “Slow and easy.”

“In, in, in, in.” Jaime wrapped his arms around Brienne. _Too fast. That’s bad, isn’t it? Too fast? But the maester doesn’t look worried … and she’d know, wouldn’t she? _“And out, out, out. Easy, slowly. In, and in, and in …”

When Brienne collapsed back against Jaime, heaving for breath, Maester Ferny took her hand. “Listen. Sometimes waters break a week before labour starts, sometimes they break as the babe is born. There’s no right or wrong to it. You’ve had quite a fast labour for a first babe, and there’s no right or wrong to that either. You’re nearly there. At the next surge, I want you to give a little push. Not as much as you want to, just a little bit.”

“Be specific,” Brienne snapped.

“She’s an athlete,” Dyah supplied.

“Like you’re lifting a carry-on bag, not a suitcase,” Ferny said. “If you’re ready, the babe will begin to crown, and if you’re not, it won’t do any harm.”

_Harm_.

_She’s not my mother_, Jaime reminded himself. _My mother had an undiagnosed complication. She’s not my mother. _“A carry-on bag is ten pounds,” he said to Brienne. “Can you remember when you used to lift that little?” Brienne shook her head. “Alright, it’s Leo. Well, a bit under Leo. Just try to lift Leo gently with your … well, with your womb.”

“Jaime!” Brienne said, and gave a breath of laughter and then groaned and gripped his arm, breathing hard.

“That’s it,” the maester said. “That’s it. Dyah says you’ve been labouring here most of the time. If you’re comfortable like this, we can go ahead and have the delivery here.”

“I haven’t been comfortable for about five hours,” Brienne snarled.

Ferny smiled. “Well, just think about what feels better. Kneeling like this, or on your side, or on your hands and knees?”

“I won’t be able to hold myself up, on my hands and knees.”

“I can hold you up,” Jaime said quickly. “If that’s what feels right. I’m strong enough.”

Brienne nodded. “It would be better. I think.”

“Alright, then, alright.” Jaime shifted around her, turned her a little, and then raised her arms to rest on his shoulders. “Alright, you lean on me, and I’ll hold you up.”

“Is this right?” Brienne asked, and then went rigid, pressing her face against Jaime’s neck.

“In, and in, and in, and in,” Jaime said, bracing himself to take her weight. “And out, and out, and out.”

Brienne leaned against Jaime and breathed hard. “I really need to push,” she said, as she collapsed forward against him. “I just … I don’t think I can wait.”

“That’s alright,” Ferny said. “Just push gently. Easy, little pushes. Controlled.”

Dyah had her stethoscope on Brienne’s belly. “Babe’s doing just fine.”

“Alright, here we go,” Ferny said. “Deep breath in, slow breath out as you push.”

Brienne nodded, and took a deep breath. “Duncan,” she said to Jaime, and then groaned with effort, sucked in a huge breath, and groaned again.

“A little too hard,” Ferny said. “Let’s land the babe nice and gently.”

“I want it over,” Brienne gasped, collapsing back against Jaime. “I want it over.”

“I know.” Ferny patted her back. “But you will thank me for making you take an extra ten minutes to avoid tearing tomorrow, trust me.”

“Babe’s still doing perfectly,” Dyah reported.

Brienne whimpered a little against Jaime’s neck. “Ten minutes?”

“You can do it,” Jaime promised her. “I know you can do it.” He stroked her hair. “So, Duncan, is it? What if it’s a boy, though? What are we going to name him?”

Brienne snuffled with weary laughter. “Jaime.” 

“Alright, but that’s going to get confusing around the house.”

“Jaime!” Brienne raised her head and glared at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Now is not the time to be ridiculous!”

He smoothed her hair back from her flushed cheeks. “You just grew an entire human being and you’re about to push them out of a not-human-being-sized hole, and you’re accusing _me_ of being ridiculous? That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of.” 

“You and your nonsense,” Brienne said tenderly, and then took a deep breath and gripped his shoulders again. Jaime breathed with her, out with each push, holding her close and holding her up. When she relaxed against him again, Brienne poked his bicep. “Besides, if it’s a boy, we’re obviously naming him Rohanne.”

“Obviously,” Jaime agreed.

He tried to keep count of how many times Brienne braced herself to push, how many contractions she endured, red-faced and sweating with effort, but time and numbers had vanished somehow. There was only Brienne, brave and beautiful Brienne, doing something that seemed so hard it should be beyond human limits but was not beyond hers.

And then Ferny said _one more surge and you’ll meet your babe_ and Brienne nodded and took a huge breath and held it, bearing down with an effort that shook her whole body. _There’s your water breaking_ Dyah said and _keep going, keep going, nearly here_ said Ferny and –

A babe cried.

“You have a son,” Ferny said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is in the minority of women to have a birth with absolutely no intervention or problem (the vast majority have some tearing, or an assisted delivery, or another intervention going all the way up to a C-section) because I wanted Brienne to be able to have her baby the way she chose, and for it to be trouble free. It’s not because I think it’s the ‘right’ way to do birth, but I made the decision because when ASOIAF Brienne has her little mini-breakdown with the Elder Brother one of the things she says is that she’s “The freakish one, not fit to be a son or daughter.” I certainly don’t think that how (or whether!) a woman has a child says anything about her womanhood or her femininity, but I wanted to let Brienne, who has already proved herself the perfect knight by her own standards, be the perfect mother *by her own standards* (not by mine, or any sane person’s, frankly, and I hope Jaime’s counter-opinion helped balance that). I myself had interventions of different kinds every time, and Brienne's experience is based on a friend who I was birth coach for, not my own. That didn't make her birth better than mine - just different.


End file.
